


Neo-Noir Knights | 作戰

by godtiermeme



Series: "Please stop writing these awful AKIRA-style AU's." [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Alternate Universe - Future, Angst™, Asexuality, Bro's one of the Bad Guys™, Cyberpunk, Dialogue Heavy, F/F, Gen, Humanstuck, M/M, Past Abuse, [aggressive motorcycle noises], eridan gets a redemption arc probs, featuring future revolution, i promise this won't end as sadstuck, if the tag says "dave" or "karkat" you can bet ur sweet ass it's hella ace, this was going to be "normal" but then again what is normal?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-03 19:58:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 30,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6624181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godtiermeme/pseuds/godtiermeme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when Dave Strider rescues Karkat from the Neo-Skaian Arena.</p><p>(AKA: The motorcycle-riding asexual cyberpunk romance/comedy/drama.)<br/>[As of 28 April 2016 | Chapter 12] (Now feat. a dog named Casey)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 月牙鏟

**Author's Note:**

> "haven't you tried to write an akira-style cyberpunk fic like five times already?"  
> lol yeah here's another

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [**Kaneda**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hpDvtIt6Lsc)  
>  Geinō Yamashirogumi | 芸能山城組  
>  _ **AKIRA: The Original Soundtrack**_ (1988) | Victor Music Industries, JVC Records

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Moon Tooth Spade/Zen Weapon](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monk%27s_spade)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> blind dave happens later ([x](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6624181/chapters/15273748))  
> deaf karkat also happens later ([x](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6624181/chapters/15391207))

The rules of Skaian Arena Fighting are simple.

Two people—often young adults who’ve been raised and bred for this very sport—are tossed into a coliseum with—preferably—white sand. Pure, untarnished white sand whose lack of color makes for brilliant, vivid contrasting when soaked with blood. It’s cheap, easy to find, and can be quickly dumped into the drainage systems below the arena grounds. Blades are the only weapons allowed in the arena. Guns have long since been deemed too effective.

The goal of arena fighting is much more than just victory. It’s about the blood and the thrill of watching people beating the living shit out of one another. It’s the raw, animalistic brutality. Near-constant bloodshed fills the long-forgotten old city center of Skaia.

The location of the Arena is fairly central. It’s never more than a two hour drive—even in the densest of traffic—to get to the old, former Olympic stadium. Tickets are sold cheaply—no more than one or two credits. Hell, kids get a discount entrance price of fifty coin. It’s practically a family event. Everyone, young and old, just loves watching it.

And, for some reason, it all goes above Dave’s head. Or, maybe, he’s just not normal. Everyone else seems to love SAF. It’s something that’s supposed to be fun for everyone.

And, yet…

A loud, wailing noise comes from the siren atop the old, broken billboard which tops the far northern wall of the stadium. From deep within the superstructure, there comes a mechanical moan. Two doors on either side of the massive field—one to the east, the other to the west—creak open. And, from the shadows of the fighter’s quarters, emerge two men.

Dave recognizes one of them.

A fairly tall, slender man with a flowing purple cape and bloodied iron trident. He’s adorned himself in blue armor and shielded his eyes behind some thick-lensed goggles. As if this wasn’t flashy enough, though, he’s also added a distinctive purple streak through his jet black hair. He’s the darling of the Arena; and, he has been for quite some time. Like any other fighter, his name isn’t well known. Most people only ever refer to him by his professional title, The Prince of Hope.

The other man, though… He’s new.

Probably little more than an unpaid brawler. After all, the only fighter to be paid is the combatant at the top of the pyramid. Right now, it’s the Prince of Hope.

And, from what Dave can see, this pyramidal hierarchy won’t be crashing down any time soon.

Whoever this newcomer is, he clearly doesn’t know a single damned thing about what’s happening. He’s armed himself with what seems to be a glorified sickle and equipped himself with the skimpiest armor that Dave has ever seen. Beneath his ratty black leather jacket, he wears little more than a grey leather vest.

The crowd jeers. Trash is thrown into the arena. It accumulates on the side of the unidentified fighter, though they don’t seem to mind. They spin their chosen blade absentmindedly in their free hand and wait patiently until the bell rings.

When it does, there’s another surge of energy from the crowd. The entire stadium roots for the obvious victor—the Prince of Hope. The people surrounding Dave scream with unbridled vigor and stomp their feet against the ground. Gamblers throughout the superstructure clutch their tickets with baited breath.

“Crush them,” seems to be the general consensus.

The newcomer, however, has different ideas. He drifts through the fighting area like a ghost—seemingly disappearing and reappearing on opposite sides of the ring. Dodge and evade.

It’s not a very popular strategy with the crowd. Their cheers devolve into vulgar name-calling. Those nearest the ring begin to spit; it darkens the sand around the edge.

Dave, however, finds himself fascinated. For the first time in his life, he can’t take his eyes off of the battle. He watches as the unknown fighter dodges and blocks each oncoming attack—as, bit by bit, he wears the great Prince of Hope down.

It’s a legitimate strategy. It’s something Dave’s never seen before and, all too soon, it comes to an end.

One of the Gladiators—the officials in charge of keeping the fights interesting—intervenes. The fight is halted and the dissenter punished. After shoving the unconventional fighter to his knees and stripping him of his jacket, a flaming hot brand bearing the symbol of the arena, the barbed “S,” is pressed against the exposed skin of his forearm.

The crowd cheers.

Dave, once again, loses interest.

He doesn’t need to watch to know what’s happening. The louder the stadium cheers, the more gruesome the events unfolding at its center are.

Farm Burners. That’s the label given to all contestants who don’t necessarily fall in line with the usual proceedings of the Skaian Arena. It’s a derived from the fact that fighters are known as Cattle. Likewise, the filthy rich owners of the arena contestants—especially those to whom the most prestigious belong—are known as Stables.

Sure, general fighters had it hard. But Farm Burners have it the worst.

What’s peculiar about this particular case, however, is that the fighter doesn’t scream. In fact, not a single sound comes from the freshly branded dissenter.

Eventually, though, the Gladiators release the contestant. The battle begins anew and, to the delight of everyone in the stadium, the newcomer is crushed like a bug beneath an iron-heeled boot. He collapses in the middle of the arena in silence. The sand shifts.

As the floor begins to cave inward, the sand becomes more akin to a bloodied ocean. It cradles the body and washes it down, into the colloquial Blood Pit.

 

* * *

 

_Knight of Blood._

The words are penned in a flourishing, dark black ink that stands out against medium brown skin.

Every fighter has their official title tattooed onto their person. It’s their brand—their eternal mark of otherness. Usually, the brand is done on the back. However, as Dave is bandaging the stranger’s wounds, he notices that his runs up his left forearm.

No. He’s here to do a good deed and, then, leave.

He can’t get involved in every goddamned thing he sees.

He…

“FUCK!”

Dave stumbles backward. He slips and ends up falling into the fine, sweat- and blood-soaked sand as the Knight of Blood suddenly moves. Once he’s gotten over this shock, however, he creeps a bit closer. By now, the stranger has opened his eyes. The left eye is a strange sort of blueish-grey—the sort of color that can change with even the slightest slip of light; the right, however, is a standard, solid black prosthetic. “Yo. So… You awake?”

The Knight of Blood frowns. Thick, black brows furrow in an expression of confusion.

“Yeah. Okay. Cool.” Dave reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls forth a steel flask. A few hours earlier, he had filled it with fresh, clean water. He’s been here, after all. He knows how rare any sort of legitimate sustenance is to find. Thus, he sets the flask and some bags of snacks he’d stolen from the vending machines on the ground between himself and the stranger. He offers a reassuring smile. “I promise you, dude, I didn’t touch any of these. All of them are nice and tight and sealed. No funky tampering business going on here.”

The response is, again, silence. Now, though, it’s punctuated by the sound of his breathing. A sharp, strained, wheezing noise accompanies each inhale; and, a muffled sound—something like a strangled vocalization—comes with every exhale. The inner edges of his eyebrows push even closer together.

“You can hear me, right?” Dave frowns.

The stranger nods. He opens his mouth to speak and, when he does, his voice comes forth as a poorly amplified whisper. Low, humming feedback underlays the artificially bolstered noise. “Unfortunately.”

One word. That’s all Dave gets. Still, he works with it. He pops open the flask of water and takes a sip. He wipes his mouth draw with the sleeve of his jacket and tilts the container towards the Knight of Blood. “I promise. Everything’s clean. Nothing funny about any of this shit. It’s straighter than straight. The tamper seals are in place and everything.”

In return, there’s a small nod. After some hesitation, the Knight of Blood takes the flask in his hand. He downs it hastily before beginning to eye the packages of food. “Who are you?”

“Name’s Dave Strider. I live in one of the high-rise places in Neo-Skaia.” A small shrug punctuates Dave’s statement. “You… alright? Is that noise normal?”

“Fuck you.” The statement is short, simple, and surprisingly blunt. But, it seems that the man has more to say, as he soon continues, “Yes. It is.” Here, he bows his head and folds his hands behind his back—something Dave recognizes as standard Arena behavior. “I’m sorry, Sir. I get… Um… I’m a fucking loser, I guess. My mouth opens and absolute shit flies out.” He bows; and, as he does, a guttural grunt of discomfort escapes him. It takes him a solid minute to fully straighten his back again.

“So… You… have a name, right?”

The Knight of Blood shrugs. “Karkat. I named myself that. Does that count?”

“I guess?” Dave frowns. Clearly, the Arena has gotten a lot tougher with its rules since he left. “I brought you the food, too. Feel free to let it do its job of being eaten and digested.”

Another stiff bow. Karkat gathers the food and hides it in the various pockets of his jacket. “Thank you.”

“I can get you out of here,” the words slip from Dave’s mouth before he can stop them.

And, as they do, Karkat’s brow furrows. “You and what? Some fucking miraculous army of city-dwelling socialites?”

“No… I mean…” He can’t take it back now. No, Dave has to go with it, now. Damn him and his conscience. He sighs and pulls off the right sleeve of his jacket to reveal the small portion of his own flourishing brand on his shoulder blade. It pokes out from beneath his white t-shirt and stands against his pale skin like an angry, unwanted bruise. Once he’s sure Karkat he seen it, he hides it once more. “I _can_ get you out of here.”

“For what? Are you going to make me your bastard errand monkey? Send me all over the fucking city to do asinine bullshit for you?”

Dave shakes his head. “No. I…” he stops and looks at his watch. The sun will be rising soon. He can’t stay here much longer. “Meet me tomorrow in the eastern stadium hall. Trust me.”

“I’d rather eat my own fucking shit.” Karkat frowns. Still, he maintains the same subservience Arena stance—head bowed, eyes averted, hands behind his back. “And I’d trust the words of a drug-induced hallucination before I’d trust you.”

“No. Really, dude, I can help…” Dave takes a step towards Karkat. He feels a rough hand take firm hold of his wrist. A shoulder—one covered in metal armor beneath the jacket, by the looks of it—rams into his chest. He drops to the ground. When he looks up, he sees only the receding figure of Karkat’s back.

“Thanks for the water. I’m not interested.”

Dave sighs. He takes a few seconds to collect himself before rising to his feet and exiting the stadium.

He knows the way out by heart. Up the spiral staircase which leads out of the Blood Pit and down the winding, crumbling concrete inner halls.

Yet, as he does this, he can’t help but think about the man he’d just met—this Knight of Blood.

And it’s strange, really. He’s never been bothered by his interactions before. He’s had negative reactions to offers of help and, like a reasonable person, he’s turned them down. Now, though, there’s an odd thought that lingers in the back of his mind. A whining, nagging voice that tells him to try again—to show up at the proposed meeting place tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what is this "beta reading" thing because idek i just post and run have a thing hope you enjoy i guess look at me i've devolved into typing like dave strider help me my life has spiraled out of control


	2. 雁毛刀

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [**Requiem Confutatis**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Lav_lDJ2LM)  
>  W. A. Mozart, Köchel 626  
>  ** _Amadeus_** (1984) | Conducted by Sir Neville Marriner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Goose-quill saber](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yanmaodao)

Dave waits all night in the lobby, as he promised. He keeps a vigilant eye out for any signs of Karkat. The hours pass by slowly and, as the sun begins to rise, he begins to leave.

Then, he hears something.

A familiar rasping noise—regularly spaced gasps for breath that grow louder with every passing second. And, finally, he appears.

He’s clad in standard so-called relaxation clothing. Jeans and a ratty t-shirt.

Now, Dave can see what had been hidden beneath the jacket. An array of needles jut from the veins of his left arm. The tubes attached to them disappear beneath his shirt. And, of course, there’s the heavy metal collar around his neck. Typically, they’re fairly plain—after all, their function is little more than to make the loudest, shrillest noise possible if a fighter manages to escape. His, though, has something peculiar at the base of the neck—an odd, flashing green light—that Dave has never seen before.

“You… actually showed up?” His voice is quieter, now. Yesterday, it was loud. It commanded attention. Now, though, it’s little more than a hoarse croak.

In all honesty, Dave’s not exactly sure what’s been said. Still, he takes a guess and replies to that. “Hell yeah I did. Why the fuck wouldn’t I? What? Is… Is that a new Arena joke or something? Telling people to meet you and letting them look like sad little assholes as they stand alone in the big, open concrete world?”

For the first time, a small smile crosses Karkat’s face. He tugs at the collar around his neck for a few seconds before letting forth a frustrated sigh. “I’ve really got no fucking clue about what you’re flapping your lips about, but…”

“Okay, dude, I know it’s night and all, but you’re gonna’ have to speak up a little.”

Karkat frowns and offers an enigmatic shrug. “Sorry to break the fucking news to you, pal, but the jackasses who run this place kind of own that. What you heard yesterday? They put that fucker on me to make sure they can hear me if I take a verbal shit in the middle of the ring. Not that I would. I…” He winces and inhales sharply. Then, there’s a long, controlled exhale. His brows knit together.

Out of courtesy and despite his burning curiosity, Dave ignores this. He pushes the conversation forward. “Not even, like, a tiny little bit? Just, you know, turn the knob up some?”

“I don’t have a fucking knob. I might be certifiable walking corpse, but I haven’t quite shed the last sad little vestige of my humanity and become a brain in a fucking jar.” This time, he seems to be more prepared for whatever it is that’s causing the breathing disruptions. He’s finished his statement and takes the inhalation with little more than a twitch of his shoulders. “Look, um… Strider? Right?”

Dave nods.

“I appreciate the effort. Really, I do. It’s actually fucking touching, I guess. But, you’re wasting your time. They might as well have mounted a plaque to my ass stating their ownership of me. You take me out of this giant fucking concrete eyesore,” as if to emphasize his point, Karkat gestures to the crumbling walls around them, “And I’m dead. They’ve got the shit that’s doing a passable job of delaying the moment I drop dead, so…”

“We can work around that.”

Karkat lets forth an irritated growl, though it comes out as more of a deep gurgling noise. “Yeah? And what are you doing with the collar? You going to fucking chop my head off and then come back for it later?”

Here, Dave smirks. He steps forward and pulls a thin knife from his pocket. “Ever wonder how they get these fuckers off of you so fast for battles?”

“Well… Yeah… I—”

All it takes is a single, well-aimed jab. The collar clicks open and falls into Dave’s waiting grasp before Karkat can finish. He shoves the knife back into its sheath and proceeds to cram the collar into a beaten-up old sack. “That’s how.”

“Fuck.” Karkat frowns. “And what’s the sack for? Are you _trying_ to set off the alarms?”

“Yep.”

Karkat’s frown grows in direct relation to Dave’s cocky grin. He absentmindedly picks at the loose threads of his shirt. “You’re a fucking shithead, Strider. I’ve seen literal rocks with a higher intelligence quota than you.”

“Thanks.”

With this much said and the knowledge that their window of opportunity is rapidly fading, Dave grabs onto Karkat’s wrist. He drags him out of the chosen meeting location and into the nearby parking lot. After tying a knot in the top of the sack containing the collar, he gestures to a bright red motorcycle. “Get on. I’ll be back in, like, five seconds. If I’m not, hit the autopilot button.”

“You have an autopilot button?”

“Yeah.” Here, Dave pauses. A thought crosses his mind. He pulls off his own jacket jacket—a leather one that matches his bike’s paint job—and tosses it to the confused Knight of Blood. “Put that on. Seriously, dude, we’re getting a little low on time here. Go!”

Karkat nods diligently and scrambles towards the vehicle.

Dave, meanwhile, runs until he’s a fairly good distance away from the parking lot. He throws the bag hard enough for it to fall outside of the decaying chain link fence that surrounds the stadium and, as the alarm begins to sound, stumbles back to the bike. He takes his position and turns the key in the ignition. Though he prepares to instruct Karkat to hold on, he decides otherwise.

The probably terrified man has already wrapped his arms roughly around Dave’s chest.

Twist a few knobs… Push a few buttons… Step on the gas…

There’s a low, rumbling purr. Then, the motorbike rockets ahead.

The world passes by as a continuous blur.

It takes just over a minute to distance themselves enough from the Arena that the screeching alarm no longer matters. It’s gone, now. Far beyond earshot and, as far as Dave is concerned, out of sight _and_ out of mind.

No, what matters to Dave right now is the feeling of the wind against his skin. The familiar thrill of riding his bike. The way the sun beats against the not-so-distant towers of Neo-Skaia, making the glass facades shimmer like water.

Two hours.

Two hours at the absolute most…

 

* * *

 

When the ride finally comes to an end, Karkat stumbles off eagerly. He tugs at the jacket Dave had given him until the left sleeve is up enough for him to make sure that the various needles are still securely in their ports.

Dave, meanwhile, pushes the bike up to one of the steel pillars of the parking garage. After chaining it securely in place, he turns back to Karkat and frowns. “This is probably super rude, but what’re those things for, anyhow?”

Karkat shrugs. “It’s some sort of weird chemical bullshit that keeps me from bleeding everywhere. Not sure what the fuck they call it, all I know is that they only ever told me I had some sort of blood disorder. An abnormality that makes my blood cells decide to do whatever the fuck they want. Knowing me, it’s probably some fucking weird, unknown genetic fuck-up.” With this much said, he pulls off the jacket and hands it back to Dave. “If it’s any semblance of a consolation to your tiny, enigmatic little brain, I’ve been pumped with enough of it to last me exactly one year. Just got the refill five days ago.”

Dave nods. He pulls out his phone and jots the fact down in his notes before leading Karkat to the apartment he shares with his friend, John. He begins to ramble without really meaning to. “He’s not home right now, but my roommate is going to flip his shit when he sees you. He’s, like… You wouldn’t fuckin’ think it—John fuckin’ Egbert, MD—but he’s a pretty smart guy. When he wants to be, I guess. Fuckin’ turd bucket’s idea of a joke is hiding whoopee cushions everywhere.”

From the parking lot, the pair passes through a motion-activated glass double door and into a fairly modest hallway. Each of the faux wood doors bears a number.

“Anyhow,” Dave clears his throat. He finds himself blushing as he realizes that he’d gone on an irrelevant tangent. “Anything I should know about you? Like… Health stuff? John can probably find you the medicine, so we’ve got no fuckin’ problem there. All cool with the drugs.”

Karkat shrugs. “I’m not real big on raw electricity. Don’t let me get near live wires and shit. Goes south really fucking fast.” He eyes the door they’ve stopped in front of—room 42, apparently—and sighs. “Really, though, you… Didn’t have to do this.”

“What’s an Arena fighter for if it ain’t helping out other fighters?” As the lock to the room clicks open, Dave flashes Karkat one of his signature lopsided smiles. “We don’t really have that much space,” he goes on to admit, “But the sofa folds out into a bed.”

As they step into the room, Dave discards his keys by tossing them onto the nearby dining room table.

Most of the furniture is fairly plain. It’s cheap, old-fashioned wooden crap that probably came from the furthest, most ancient depths of a nearby IKEA. Clothes are strewn everywhere, and the room is divided strangely in half by two conflicting color schemes. Dave gravitates towards his red furnishings; and, comparatively, John has decorated primarily in a vivid sky blue.

Old, faded photos are pinned to the walls and a squeaky ceiling fan rotates at a slow but constant rate.

Dave, meanwhile, has taken it upon himself to show Karkat the sofa. He roughly shoves the coffee table out of the way. A bright red coffee mug slides off and shatters, prompting an uttered profanity. However, Dave keeps working on the task at hand. After a few minutes, he manages to pry the rusted piece of furniture open to reveal a fairly clean but outrageously old mattress. He points to this and mentally praises himself for a job well done. “There you go, Karkat. Your bed. John’s not real big on having spares of things, but he _does_ have some extra bedsheets. I’ll go grab ‘em and bring ‘em out.”

With this said, Dave offers Karkat a reassuring pat on the shoulder before wandering to a nearby closet. From this, he pulls out some plain white bedsheets and a pillow. “This is all we’ve got, so…”

“This is really fucking nice, really,” Karkat interrupts, “But… I…” He frowns and folds his hands behind his back as he continues, “I feel pretty fucking shitty just crashing your… whatever the fuck this is. I can take care of myself, so…”

“Hm?” Dave frowns. He cocks his head to the side and quirks his brow.

And, after a few moments, Karkat shakes his head. “Never mind. I’ll just… shut my fucking mouth.”

“You sure?”

“I’ve really got nothing that fucking useful to say.” Karkat punctuates this statement with a small, unconvincing smile.

Dave, in return, nods.

For now, he’ll leave the issue as it is. He knows from experience that the next few days will be a lot for Karkat to handle; there’s no reason for him to add any extra stress.

 

* * *

 

John Egbert arrives home as he usually does. His thick, black hair has long since defied all the styling it had been subjected to. A wide grin is spread across his face and his rectangular black glasses sit slightly askew atop the bridge of his freckled, tan nose. He sets aside his briefcase and pulls off his usual blue suit jacket. And, then, his eyes fall upon Karkat. “You’re… new?” he mutters.

As if summon, Dave stumbles out of the bathroom. After hastily zipping up his pants, he offers a sheepish grin. “Yeah. This is Karkat. I brought him back from the Arena.”

“Cool.” John nods. He stretches his arms above his head and yawns. “Rose’ll be _fucking pissed_ , though. Didn’t she tell you not to do this anymore?”

“Yeah, but…” Dave mutters.

Karkat responds with a hoarse, nervous cough.

And John, after tossing aside his green tie, walks straight to his lofted bed. He climbs it quickly and flicks the switch to control the bed’s built-in mini air conditioner and music player. “Anyhow,” he says, grabbing the inside handle of the noise-cancelling privacy cover, “I’m tired as hell. Sorry for being a bad host and all but I’m going to bed.”

“Sleep well.” Dave shrugs. He wanders over to the room’s only desk and powers on the computer.

Karkat, meanwhile, sees little else to do. Following John’s example, he sprawls out on the sofa’s build-in mattress and quickly falls into the deepest, most refreshing slumber of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [doing the fuckin worm because i'm a fucking nerd]


	3. 峨嵋刺

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [**Reimei**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cz4WjRSaTJg)  
>  Kitaro  
>  ** _Kojiki_** (1990) | Geffen/Domo Records

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Emei daggers](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emeici)

It’s around noon when Dave notices any sort of significant movement from Karkat.

By now, John has gone back to work. Today, though, the apartment isn’t as unbearably lonely. After all, there’s Karkat. Sure, Dave doesn’t really know him that well; but, some company is better than no company. (At least, in his opinion…)

He approaches the presumably still-groggy man carefully. Slow, light steps. Nothing sudden or aggressive. When he speaks, he makes sure his voice is as low and calm as it possibly can be. “Hey. You actually awake over here or…?”

There’s no response.

By now, Dave has gotten close enough to see the Karkat’s head poking out from beneath the covers. The man’s gaze sweeps the room warily. “So, do you want something to eat? I mean… John’s the better cook here, but I don’t think I’m all that bad. I can probably fix you up some fuckin’ decent slop if you want it.”

His eyes are open and alert. Slowly, Karkat’s gaze shifts from moving around the room to locking on one point. And that singular point is Dave. Even so, he still gives no response.

Dave, having exactly negative zero ideas about what he _should_ be doing, continues talking. “You got any favorites? Like… I’ve always liked some dank ass chicken fingers and apple juice.” (Just thinking about it is making Dave’s stomach growl. Damn.) “We’ve got a shit ton of stuff. Mac and cheese and freezer dinners and all that fuckin’ good shit.”

At this point, Karkat pushes himself into a sitting position and releases an odd yawn—a strange, breathy noise that amounts to something similar to a sigh. “Do you ever fucking shut up?” he mutters as he throws aside the bedsheets and stumbles from the bed.

“John says I do,” Dave shrugs. “So… um… About something to eat?”

“I’m not sure.” Karkat pauses. He inhales sharply before letting forth a long, hoarse sigh. When the sigh is finished, he repeats the process two or three more times before continuing, “You might’ve saved me from the Arena, but that doesn’t excuse the fact that you’ve got the most unbearable, suspicious fucking face I’ve ever seen.”

“Suspicious!?” Dave cries facetiously. “I’ll have you know, good sir, that I won a construction paper trophy in fifth grade for being the most fuckin’ trustworthy dude in the class. I’m the guy that everyone does their trust falls with. You can do a fuckin’ nosedive and I’ll catch you. Promise.”

In reply, Karkat shrugs. He flattens his right hand and uses it to massage his chest. “That’s fucking lovely for you, Strider, but I’ve got a pretty fine-tuned sense of when to get the fuck out of somewhere. It’s a built-in function of mine. I call it my oh-shit-this-one’s-going-to-fucking-stab-me-time-to-fucking-run sense. And, right now, it’s not tingling. It’s stuck in the middle of the most outrageous inferno to ever exist in the context of my mind.”

The more Karkat speaks, the more Dave notices about his speech patterns. While he’d never given it any particular thought earlier, in the Arena, there’s a fairly prominent pause between every handful of syllables. Crunching some really, _really_ rough estimated numbers, Dave figures that the average maximum is five or six syllables before taking a two-to-three second breather.

Curious mannerisms aside, Dave finds himself drowning in the verbal density of the Knight of Blood’s replies. For the first time, he’s met someone with a tendency to be as outrageously verbose as himself; and, he can’t help but be amused by this. In fact, he’s so amused that he lets a small half-smile slip onto his features. “Dude, you’re a fuckin’ trip. Holy shit. Everyone buckle up and glue your ass to your seats, because Karkat is here and he’s going to drop some verbal atom bombs whether you want him to or not. Also, whether it takes him a solid minute more than most people—”

Dave stops here. He notes the fact that Karkat’s expression has taken a sudden turn from confusion to mild embarrassment. “Oh. Hell. Fuck. Sorry. Is that a touchy topic?”

Karkat shrugs. He buries his hands in the pockets of the jeans he slept in. “No… It’s fucking stupid of me to be caught up about it.”

“Yeah. Okay. Won’t mention it again.” Here, Dave shows his sincerity the only way he knows how to. He offers a thin-lipped, nervous smile and pulls up the sleeve of his shirt to reveal his own branding scar. A barbed “S” which stands against his pale shin. Once he’s sure Karkat’s seen it, however, he quickly pulls the sleeve back into place. “Promise, dude. Not going to ask or talk about that shit again, ‘right?”

“Thanks?” Karkat’s reply is a very definite question. There’s not even the smallest shred of confidence in his voice. “I guess I can trust you to not poison my fucking food. I really don’t want anything specific. Maybe some pudding or something?”

“Pudding?” Dave frowns. His left brow shoots upwards until it’s visible above the reflective black mirror of his shades. “That’s it? You sure? I mean… It looks to me like you might need a little more than a shitty cup of generic-brand pudding.”

“If the doctors at the Arena are worth their own weight in shit, then I’m not really supposed to be having that much solid food, anyhow.” Here, Karkat motions with his hands. With the webbing between the forefinger and thumb of each hand, he frames a small rectangle. It’s no larger than a standard phone. “They gave me these little packs of liquid piss at the Arena.” He lowers his hands. His gaze wanders towards the upper left portion of his eye. (The other eye, being a plain black prosthetic, is impossible to read.) “Basically, they were tasteless juice pouches. No fucking clue what was in them, but I was the only fucking kid in the whole training program who got them.”

“You never got actual food?”

“Whenever I tried to, there’d be someone hovering over my shoulder and giving me some absolute fucking bullshit about how I had a special dietary requirement.” Karkat shrugs. “I mean, the one time I did sneak actual food, I near-fucking-literally died. So, hell, the bastards might have been onto something.”

“Oh.” Dave sighs. He pulls off his shades and clips them to the collar of his shirt. “Well… John might be able to come up with something.”

“I don’t really care either way.” By now, Karkat has begun to wander around the studio apartment. At this exact moment, he’s begun to examine Dave’s collection of guitars. As it seems, he’s taken a particular interest in a faded cherry wood acoustic model.

And Dave, unsure of what else there is to do besides pass the time until John gets home, trots over to Karkat’s side. He smirks proudly. “You play instruments?”

“Nope. I’d love to learn how, though.”

Dave nods. He makes a mental note to remember this fact, though, deep down, he knows he’ll probably forget it within the next hour or so.

 

* * *

 

Around three-o’clock that afternoon, Dave Strider comes to the unfortunate conclusion that they have completely run out of both Coca-Cola _and_ apple juice. He thus declares a state of emergency and, after some profuse apologizing for leaving him alone on his first day, Dave rushes out of the apartment to stock up.

The store isn’t all that far away.

It’s a twenty minute walk both ways.

Still, by the time he gets back, he finds that John is also in the process of arriving home. In fact, when Dave reaches the door, he finds John standing in front of it, his keys out.

“You’re early,” Dave comments, clutching his paper bag of juice and soda. “Some wild shit go down or something?”

“Nah.” John shrugs. He casually pulls one of the juice bottles from the bag before unlocking the door. “I felt kinda’ bad about not actually introducing myself, so…”

“Run, Karkat,” Dave calls as the door swings open. “John’s home.”

“What?” Karkat is perched atop the pull-out mattress. “Oh… Hey?”

John, in return, punches Dave lightly in the stomach before approaching Karkat. He offers a bright grin and extends his hand, “Name’s John Egbert. Came back home early to tell you I’m sorry for crashing last night.”

Karkat, in return, scoots away from the gesture. He eyes the newcomer warily. “Yeah… um…”

“You’re too fuckin’ perky for him, John,” Dave snickers. “This is why Rose took me after you broke me out of the Arena. You’re too damn friendly.”

“Oh.” John blushes and rubs the back of his neck with the hand he had originally offered Karkat. “Well, nice to have someone new around here.”

“So… You broke Dave out of the Arena?”

John nods. “Yep. Well… I helped. Dave came up with the plan.”

“And when was that?” asks Karkat.

“I was thirteen, so... Six years ago? Seven?” Dave shrugs.

John, as if to confirm this, nods. “I wouldn’t go to him for help, though. Dave’s useless when it comes to emotions.”

Now, it’s Dave’s turn to blush. It stands out vividly against his pale skin. “Yeah… Well… I’m working on it.”

“Yeah, I know.” With John’s reply comes one of his signature toothy grins. “By the way, I’m going on a date tonight.”

“With Spider-Bitch?” Dave asks, making no attempt to hide his disdain. “Yeah. Whatever. I’ll have my own date with myself. Because I’m amazing.”

“Vriska’s pretty cool,” John says in defense. “I mean, her eight tarantulas are pretty creepy, but… What should I get her? I was thinking flowers, but...”

From seemingly out of nowhere, Karkat cuts in. His voice is strained and, somehow, marginally louder than normal. Still, he has to repeat his statement for it to be noticed. (Dave notices it immediately. John, however, is too lost in thought to hear it the first time.) “Did you get her something on the last date?”

“What?” John frowns. “So… Is that your actual voice?”

“No, I’m a fucking award-winning voice actor. I’ve played every fictional non-live-action character in cinema in the past fucking fifteen years.” Karkat rolls his eyes. He coughs weakly before continuing, “Answer the fucking question, though. I’m trying to help.”

“Oh. Well…” John bites his lip. “Yeah… I got her some chocolates and one of those air fresheners that makes your room smell like a jungle monkey’s ass. And, before that, I got her some chocolate-covered pretzels…”

“Don’t get her anything,” Karkat says matter-of-factly. “You’re acting like some sort of desperate, rich asshole.” Another cough. Karkat frowns and pulls an old, stained handkerchief from his pocket. He coughs again and, before either of his new roommates can see what he’d coughed up, he stuffs the cloth hastily into his pocket. “I mean… That’s just a guess.”

“What? You dated in the Arena?” Dave comments. His eyes widen, though he’s perfectly aware of the fact that neither Karkat nor John can see this. “Dude, that’s fuckin’ impressive.”

“No…” There’s a definite hint of hesitation in Karkat’s voice. Still, he ultimately decides to provide his explanation. “I used to read some of the novels people dropped in the stands. Kinda’ liked the romance ones.”

“Aw.” Dave’s commentary is as serious as it is in jest.

Karkat’s response, however, is sincere as hell. “You tell anyone that and I will rip out your fucking throat, Strider.”

Dave’s look of mild amusement disappears. He nods.

John laughs. “I like this guy. He can actually make you shut up, Dave.” Having had his fill of his roommates’ shenanigans, John tightens his bright green tie and makes a half-assed attempt at sorting out his wild, messy hair. When this fails, however, he simply shrugs and offers a short wave before departing.


	4. 偃月刀

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [**The Crystal Chamber**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7tx783Z5gso)  
>  James Newton Howard  
>  ** _Atlantis: The Lost Empire_** (2001) | Probably Disney but IDEK

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Reclining moon blade](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guandao)

John ends up staying at Vriska’s for the night.

It’s not exactly a massive surprise to Dave. He’d probably spend every last second cuddling with his prospective significant other, too. That is, of course, if he had one. But, he doesn’t; so, instead, he finds himself sprawled out in his bed. Unlike John's, his isn’t lofted. Rather, it’s raised only enough for him to shove some junk underneath.

His bed, like John’s, also has a standard privacy cover. (The only reason the pull-out sofa doesn’t have one is because of its age.) It folds into the bed and slides under it when not in use. When it is used, it provides a minimal amount of atmospheric control—including temperature and humidity—and plays music. Whereas John, to Dave’s chagrin, sets his bed to play rock music, he sets his to play mostly instrumental.

However, his bed’s privacy cover is less sound-resistant than John’s. Not that it really bothers him. He doesn’t care either way. However, on this particular night, it might just be a good thing that his is the cheaper of the two beds.

Because, around one o’clock, Dave wakes to a strange coughing noise. An odd, wheezing hack crossed with short, ragged gasps for air.

Even in his state of drowsiness, the sounds ring the “Holy Shit” alarms.

He shoves the privacy cover open enough for him to squeeze out and into the room. And, there, he finds Karkat, somehow still asleep, to be the source of the noise.

Now, though, he’s keenly aware of two things. He has to wake Karkat; but, waking an Arena fighter when they’re asleep is also a huge taboo. Usually, if a fighter is woken in the middle of the night, it’s under the assumption that an offending party is about to kill them.

Wrestling with these two conflicting ideas takes a few seconds—seconds that Dave knows are probably important—but, in the end, he opts to wake Karkat. He gently places his hand on the sleeping man’s shoulder and pushes. And, when his wrist is caught in a painful grip, he’s not exactly shocked. That would’ve been his natural reaction, too, a few years ago.

“Well. This might be an interesting story for the ER docs…” He keeps his voice as friendly and non-confrontational as possible.

And, in return, Karkat lets go. A frown crosses his face. The coughing had subsided the moment he sat up in bed to fight back. And, now, all that’s left is a look of pure confusion. “What the actual fuck, Strider? You should know not to…”

“You were… um… Can I call it coughing? Was it coughing?” Dave shrugs. “Summary is that you were making some fucked up noises—like, not creepy fucked up but more like oh-fuck-is-there-a-dying-man-in-my-house kind of noises. And, I mean… I’m not superstitious, because that's fuckin’ stupid. But having people die in your apartment is usually a pretty bad sign.”

Karkat’s reply is swift and matter-of-fact. It gives Dave the distinct impression that the Knight of Blood isn’t exactly someone who’s going to sugarcoat anything. “I’m used to sleeping in the wall bunk. Not too sure why, but they always told me not to sleep on my back. That enough of an explanation for you? It’s completely normal.”

“So… You want my bed?”

“Why would I want that?” protests Karkat. “It probably smells like cocky, insufferable shit.”

“It’s against a wall?” To be honest, Dave’s not exactly sure what he’s trying to do. Still, he keeps talking. “Smaller space, less room to roll over… I don’t know. I just really was not down with the sound you were making. It was… weird. Like. A dying noise. That’s what it was. It was a fuckin’ dying noise, and I’m not having any of that shit in my apartment.”

“So you’re saying that it’d make you somehow feel better if I slept in your bed?”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“And you’ll sleep…?”

“On the pull-out.”

Karkat seems to consider this idea. He chews on his lip for a few minutes before coming to a conclusion. “Yeah. Sure. What-fucking-ever,” he says as he gathers his things. “I don’t give a fuck. Knock yourself out.”

“Will do.”

“Great.” By now, Karkat has already made it to Dave’s bed. (Not that it’s a very long walk.) After tossing aside Dave’s pillow, he carefully fluffs his own before setting it down. Then, with a dismissive utterance of “good night,” he quickly falls back to sleep.

 

By noon, John still hasn’t returned.

Karkat and Dave have drifted to opposite corners of the room. Nothing has been said between them for the past however many hours.

There’s a tense, awkward silence in the air.

And Dave, if he’s being completely honest with himself, is starting to regret busting Karkat out of the Arena.

It’s not that he’s a bad person. It’s just that he’s more than Dave bargained for.

He’d freed Karkat on an inexplicable impulse and, when the reality began to settle in, he’d started to hope for someone to talk to. Someone to spend time with when John isn’t home.

Really, though, Karkat is…

To say the least, he’s difficult to bond with—a fact that’s started to resonate with Dave during his first full day alone with the man.

The most obvious problem is Karkat’s voice. It’s so damned quiet that Dave questions whether it’s worth putting in the effort to discern what he’s saying. And, when he does put in that effort, his patience is still tested by Karkat’s peculiar speech pattern—the fairly long pauses he takes between every few syllables. It wouldn’t be a problem if he spoke in concise terms; but, not a single thing about Karkat is concise. Instead, he just _has_ to deal in long, seemingly endless sentences.

Dave is aware that none of this is likely in Karkat’s control. From what he’s seen in the Arena medical wing and heard from John, it’s probably a breathing issue. But he’d be lying if he said that he can actually put up with how much time it takes for Karkat to say even the simplest of things.

And, aside from that, he breathes loudly. It was noticeable in the Arena; but, now, in the silence of John’s apartment, it’s damned near unbearable. He seems to suck air in like a defective vacuum cleaner before exhaling it with a noise akin to a congested sigh. It’s something that Dave can’t help but find unnerving.

With all this considered, he’s over the fucking moon when John comes home around three-o’clock.

“Dude, where the fuck have you been?”

John shrugs. It occurs to Dave that he’s got a sizable backpack—one that he hadn’t taken with him to Vriska’s—and, as this realization dawns upon him, the bag is carefully removed and set upon the table. He unzips it and pulls from it an odd-looking device. By all appearances, it’s little more than an ugly little machine with a shoulder strap. In size, it’s only slightly larger than a small purse. From the top of it juts a long, flexible tube, the end of which is topped by a plastic straw. Or… Perhaps “straw” isn’t the word Dave is looking for. It’s an odd, flat, half-inch wide nozzle with a fairly small opening.

Whatever the hell it is, it’s enough to confuse him and Karkat equally; they both stare at the contraption with slack-jawed confusion.

Nevertheless, John is quick to offer an explanation. He turns a switch on the device and nods approvingly as a low hum comes from it. “Okay, so, this probably looks really weird, but it’s something I picked up on the way back. The hospital’s got, like, so, so many of these things. They’re everywhere and I’m not sure anyone knows where they all came from.”

“That’s lovely,” Dave interjects, “What the hell is it, Egbert?”

“Oh!” John frowns. He fiddles with the controls for a second before continuing, “It’s a breathing machine. Sort of. It basically just pumps a constant stream of air and the whole point is that you use it kind of like a straw.”

Karkat eyes the device. It’s obvious that he’s not very impressed.

Still, John presses onwards. He inches closer to the intended recipient of the item. “I’ve never used it, but it’s supposed to be really helpful. Everyone who’s tried it seems to agree that the only real problem is getting used to it.”

No response.

“You put your mouth around the flat part at the end and breathe in. It’s like if you put a big fan in front of a little fan.” Here, John pauses. He considers his statement for a moment. The furrowing of his brow indicates that he’s not exactly pleased with the comparison, but he doesn’t bother to go back and correct it. “Just try it. It won’t hurt you. Promise.”

There’s a solid five minutes of hesitation from Karkat. However, he eventually takes the machine in his hands. He examines it closely before doing as John instructed. Apparently satisfied with the results, he then proceeds to throw the strap over his shoulder. “Thanks. Um…”

“John. Name’s John Egbert. Also known as Doc Egbert.”

“Yeah…” Karkat frowns. He fiddles with the adjustable tube until it’s in a place he deems suitable. “Why the fuck did you do this, though?” His voice isn’t anywhere near a so-called normal one; but, it’s closer to an acceptable volume.

“Well, you’re in my apartment and you’re a friend of Dave’s, so… A friend of Dave’s is a friend of mine. Unless you piss on repeatedly on the carpet or something.” John shrugs. “I just thought that you sounded pretty… um… How would I say this? Your breathing patterns were super abnormal. Thought this would help.”

“You’re a fuckin’ life-saver, Egbert,” Dave comments.

Having already taken a liking to his present, Karkat nods in agreement.


	5. 倭刀

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you're reading this fic you probably already know where to find the song Sunsetter, but just in case... [**Here it is**](https://homestuck.bandcamp.com/track/sunsetter) and, sadly, if you just search "Sunsetter," you seem to get results for the SUNSETTER RETRACTABLE AWNING.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Wodao](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wodao)

Since his release from the Arena, Dave has grown accustomed to the sights and sounds of Neo-Skaia. He’s gained a certain fondness for the flashy holographic advertisements which tower above him from all directions and the constant hum of noise. Street vendors heckle you, imploring you buy their merchandise. Storefronts play loud, catchy songs, though none of them seem to play the same ones. Strategically spaced speakers throughout the town provide friendly reminders—construction warnings, weather alerts, and so on.

However, Dave is also keenly aware of the fact that the city is overwhelming. To someone who’s never set foot outside of a bleak concrete cell, it’s downright terrifying. The constant surge of people bears down around you like a never-ending wave of animosity. Eyes stare through you like knives. People whisper. They laugh and, deep down, you feel a sense of absolute dread. Every second is filled with a fear of being caught and returned to the Arena.

Keeping Karkat in the apartment all day, though, isn’t that great for him, either. Again, Dave knows from experience. He practically tore through the walls of the apartment at one point. He did damned near anything he could to get out of the room and out into somewhere—anywhere—besides the cage he felt obligated to sit in day after day.

Instead, Dave is faced with finding a happy medium. When he’d originally been freed, Rose had taken him under her wing. It worked for him; but, he knows it won’t go well with Karkat. Rose isn’t exactly fit for everyone, especially not someone who was literally born into the Arena culture. No, she’s a better fit for people like Dave—people who joined later in their lives. (Albeit, not that much later. Dave joined when he was six.)

It took all night for him to think of something but, he finally did it. He decided on the perfect idea for an outing. And, thus, he provides Karkat with some of his old clothes. (They fit, though he ends up rolling up the sleeves on practically everything.) Plain black jeans and one of his extra leather biking jackets. The outfit is enough to feel as if one is protected while also offering a range of movement. Aside from that, it hides the essentials—the barbed “S” brand and the tattoo on his forearm are covered completely.

Today is day two.

In all honesty, Dave is still having apprehensions about rescuing Karkat.

He pushes those aside, though, to perform the task he assigned himself on impulse. He wakes early, prepares one of the nutritional packets John had smuggled home, and fixes himself some premade waffles. Soon thereafter, Karkat wakes. He takes his serving and downs it quickly.

Then, after Dave calls for a rentable self-driving cab, they depart.

 

* * *

 

The inside of the car is spacious and quiet. Each seat can fit two people, and both are mounted to face one another. There’s a thin table in between them. Dave sits in one seat; Karkat takes the other.

For now, Dave has stuck to keeping Karkat away from the constant crush of people in the city. The route he’s set is little more than a long, winding tour through the city that loops back to the apartment complex. After all, the car is a safe, controlled environment. It’s a place where Dave can monitor Karkat easily.

“So…” Dave clears his throat awkwardly. He’s the first to speak. “John picked a good one?”

Karkat shrugs. He lets the machine inflate his lungs for a few seconds before speaking. “Yeah. It’s pretty useful. I mean… John seems like an absolute fucking goofball but…” his last few words are cut off as he runs out of air. With a look of mild exasperation, he pauses once again to use the machine. When he speaks up, he repeats himself from where he left off. “But I have to admit he’s pretty intelligent.”

“When he wants to be,” Dave mutters. He turns his gaze towards the fake leather floor of the car. The brand is embossed into it—Spades Automobiles. For some reason, he feels uncomfortable. He avoids looking at Karkat directly. Fortunately for him, this is easily done, as his eyes are constantly hidden behind his shades. “Glad you like it, then.”

“I guess I kind of owe you a fucking favor…” Pause. Draw breath from the machine. Speak. “Which is unfortunate. Because you’re a jackass.”

Unsure of exactly how to respond to this, Dave shrugs. “Yeah. Probs.”

“Not probably. Un-fucking-deniably.”

An awkward silence creeps into the car. It grows thick and heavy and, like lead, it sinks. It smothers Dave in layers of guilt and disgust. It shifts from being awkward to, at least in Dave’s opinion, being downright hostile.

The very atmosphere, itself, seems to question him. Why is he so damned uncomfortable? What is his fucking problem? He’s never been bothered by this type of thing before. Hell, he’s been rushed to the medical wing near-dead hundreds of times. And he’s seen people in the medical wing in the exact same state. Why, then, is it bothering him now? _Why!?_

“If you’re curious,” Karkat’s voice grabs Dave’s attention and dispels the ungodly silence. While he’s sounding and looking more robust than before, he’s starting to fall back into his old routine. He manages a few syllables, stops, and breathes. “I really should be dead by now. The Arena staff wanted me to fight, though. They were popping fucking boners for some bloodshed.”

Dave nods slowly.

“It was fucking surreal. I guess it’s because I chose sickles as my weapon but…” Karkat shrugs. “They basically stuffed me full of every life-prolonging device they could pull out of their ass. I’m not sure why they wanted me so damned badly. I’m a shit fighter. But they did.”

“Oh,” is all Dave can think of in reply.

However, the comment seems to be overlooked. “They never told me what it was. They just sent me for periodic surgeries and gave me these fucking vague fortune cookie answers. It’s some sort of progressive thing that essentially fucks my lungs over for all eternity.” Karkat pauses. He holds the straw between his lips and takes a few minutes just to breathe. He inhales and, parting his lips slightly to break the seal, he exhales. When he’s ready, he nudges the tube out of the way.

“Technically, my lungs checked the fuck out when I was twelve. So, hey, score one for the fucking docs. They nailed it.” A facetious, dismissive wave of his hand emphasizes this point. “Since I can’t really get my ass brutally beaten for spectators with legitimate life support, they opted the shove some electrical wiring into me. It senses when I’m low on air and stun guns my lungs into action.”

Again, Dave finds himself unsure of what to say. Again, a quiet “oh” is all that escapes him.

Karkat, in return, nods. “That’s what I was trying to tell you in the Arena, you fucking thick-skulled baboon. You wasted your time rescuing me. I’d end up dead either way.”

“No.” The word rises from deep within Dave’s chest and forces its way out with a vengeance. “John and his fancy doctor buddies can patch you up. They’re fuckin’ brilliant at what they do.”

A bemused smirk serves as Karkat’s reply. “Never thought you’d be one of those romantic types. Oh. The world is fucking rosy. Technology is amazing and everything is fixable.” As he finishes, there’s a distinct wheeze of pain.

“You okay? Should I turn the car back? I’ve got the app on my phone.”

Karkat shakes his head and inhales sharply before responding. “No. It’s fine. Don’t lose your fucking shit, Strider. And stop looking like a coldhearted fucking puppy-kicker.”

“What?”

“You’ve got that look on your face.” As he folds his arms across his chest, Karkat pushes the tube closer to him. Now, the tip rests against his lips. “It’s that shitty kind of ‘pity the walking corpse’ look. And you’d better fucking knock it off before I rip it off for you.”

Dave shrugs. He makes a conscious effort to comply with Karkat’s demand, yet, he feels as if the result is less than convincing. “I guess… I don’t know. You’re technically younger than me, and it’s blowing my fuckin’ mind that you can be… Well… I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

“It really is.” Karkat sighs. He props his feet atop the table in the middle of the car and stares with marked disinterest out the window.

And, for some reason, Dave finally studies him. His gaze traces his jawline and looks into his mismatched eyes. He watches as light, soft-looking tufts of black hair bounce gently with every bump in the road. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he wonders what it would be like to simply be near him. To be able to rest his head against Karkat’s shoulder and listen to his breathing.

“Who was your cellmate?” When he says this, Dave makes sure to do so louder than usual. He makes sure to create a situation so damned upfront and intentional that his mind _has_ to focus on it.

Karkat, in return, takes the bait. “I wasn’t allowed to have a cellmate. They mostly just sealed me in the concrete tower and threw food up to me when it was convenient for them.” His gaze never leaves the rapidly passing scenery of downtown Neo-Skaia. “It was fun for a while. Then it got fucking boring.”

“I can imagine.” As hard as he tries, his mind keeps wandering back to those thoughts. He finds himself thinking about doing nothing more than being near Karkat—feeling his warmth and physical presence at his side. “Shit,” he mutters under his breath.

To his relief, Karkat doesn’t seem to notice the comment. Rather, he’s turned his attentions to using the machine John had given him. A strangely charming hint of a contented smile is visible on his face. Mostly, though, it’s the same expression as usual—brows furrowed, lips set in a small frown.

 

* * *

 

“Hey. Rose?”

There’s a sigh on the other end of the call. Then, a familiar voice answers. “Dave, it is four in the morning. Are you absolutely certain that we cannot possibly delay this by a few more hours?”

“This is the real deal, Lalonde. We have got on our hands a live and wild emergency.”

“Fine.” There’s a rustling from the other end. As if Rose is getting out of bed and wandering around her own apartment—the one she shares with Kanaya. “What is it this time, Dave?”

“So… I know you told me I shouldn’t but I did and I’m… I am super sorry that I did, and I think I might have just the tiniest… dude… crush…”

“Haven’t we already established that there is no such thing as the awful myth that is the ‘dude crush’?” While it’s faint, Dave is certain he hears Rose pouring cereal into a bowl. He imagines that she’s doing something along the lines of the sessions she’d hold with him.

(At night, when Dave would wake from nightmares so vivid he’d swear they were real, Rose would always lead him into the kitchen. She’d make a bowl of what she referred to as adult cereal—the bland, flavorless pulp with raisins in it—for herself. For Dave, she’d pour a bowl of whatever the hell they branded the more colorful and sugary variety of breakfast food.)

“That’s not the problem here, though. The problem is that it’s happening _again_.”

“You’re bisexual, Dave. It’s not really that surprising.” A crunching noise from Rose’s end seems to confirm Dave’s suspicions about the earlier noise. “I thought we sorted this out. You dated Jade because she was the first girl you met outside of the Arena who wasn’t me and treated you with kindness. After that fell through, you started dating John. It’s the same idea, presumably inversed since you rescued him.”

“But John didn’t work out so…” Dave sighs. He begins pacing back and forth in the parking garage. “I don’t know, Lalonde. It’s just… Bro…”

“Wasn’t actually your brother. And he was absolute filth.”

“True,” Dave concedes quickly. “But this is… I can’t come onto a dude I just busted out of the Arena. That’s… creepy. That’s something Bro would do.”

“Then don’t do it.”

“So I just…?”

“Get to know him, Dave. Your problem is impulsively jumping on anyone you deem to your liking. And, while that actually did work out for me and Kanaya, it’s not generally a recommended tactic. You need to actually get to know him.”

“I knew Egbert, though.”

“John is the straightest person in our circle of acquaintances, Dave.”

“Fuck.” There’s a brief pause as the realization sinks in for the umpteenth time. “Yeah. Oops.”

“Can I go? It is far too early for me to be dealing with this.”

“Yeah. Sure. Thanks, Rose.”

A tired half-yawn half-snicker precedes the reply. “Aw. We’re on a first-name basis. You really _do_ care.”

“Don’t push it, Lalonde.”

“I won’t. Good night, Dave.”

“Yeah.” After hanging up the phone, Dave returns inside. He quietly reenters the apartment and crawls into the pull-out bed. And, yet, he still finds himself staring at the ceiling. He closes his eyes, but they keep snapping open. After an hour of this, his gives up.

He’ll sleep later.

It’s not like there’s anywhere important for him to be tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **tldr: [dave] oh shit rose i'm not straight**


	6. 片刀

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [**Buachaill ón Eirne**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eCdNrA8YsuE)  
>  Celtic Thunder  
>  ** _Heritage_** (2011) | Celtic Thunder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ **Piandao**](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Piandao), AKA the offspring of a sword and a sickle.

It’s roughly 11:20.

Dave Strider has essentially glued his ass to his favorite chair—a gaudy, bright red leather armchair on his side of the room. For the past hour or so, he’s been playing mindless games on his phone. Little more than pointless time-killers.

Karkat, meanwhile, has yet to move from his spot atop Dave’s bed. According to him, and in his own words, it’s “fucking comfortable.”

It’s been like this for the past hour or so. Despite the silence, there’s a calm atmosphere.

For a while Karkat had been fiddling with the tube. John has since fixed it to remain silent until called upon. Apparently, it senses when it’s in use and releases an appropriate amount of air when it is. Eventually, though, he gets it into a position he’s pleased with. It rests against his lips like (or, at least, in Dave’s mind) a cigarette. And, considering how much he uses it, it’s probably best that way.

However, Dave is starting to grow restless. He’s itching for a conversation, and he’s not about to talk to himself in front of someone else. So, instead, he makes an attempt at striking up some conversation. “So… You used sickles in the Arena?”

“Yeah. Haven’t we reviewed this already?” Karkat grumbles. By now, he’s slouched against the wall. He fiddles idly with what seems to be a needle that’s come loose. He handles it with the sort of casual care that comes from experience. It’s a surefire sign that they’ve been there long enough for him to become wholly indifferent to them.

Dave has never exactly been fond of needles, though. He averts his gaze as he continues. “How’d that work? I mean… They’re short. And everyone else had to have, like, huge ass spears and swords.”

“Well… What did you have?”

Closing his eyes, Dave can still picture his sword. From the image in his head, he describes the weapon. “Big, long, awful piece of shit. Too heavy at the top and too light at the bottom. It was like trying to swing a baseball bat after some fuckin’ dunce came in and glued a weight to the end. Sharp, though. Damn that thing was sharp. Cut through fuckin’ anything. Whatever it was made of needs to be commercially released for cooking supplies.”

“I’m not asking for a pornographic novel, jackass, I’m asking for the fucking basics. What type of sword?”

“Oh.” Dave frowns. He feels the heat rising to his cheeks. As much as he resented his time in the Arena and regretted his past actions, he still has to admit that there’s a certain fondness inside of him for that sword. Sure, it was an off-balance piece of shit; but, it was his. It was the first thing in the world that he ever got to definitively call his own.

(In all truthfulness, it wasn’t the sword’s fault it was so damned awful. Dave had helped smith the weapon. He knew the weapons smith of the Arena well and used it to his advantage. The result was a blade that looked and felt like it was made by a nine-year-old working on the Rule of Cool. Something hard to wield; but, if Dave were to say it didn’t look cool, he’d be lying.)

“Longsword. Supposed to be one-handed. Ended up being two.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Karkat nod. There’s a minute of silence before he responds. “So, let’s say you swing that fucker at me.”

“I’d feel really bad doing that.”

“Hypothetically, fucknugget.”

“I’d feel really bad hypothetically, too.”

A growl of frustration escapes Karkat. “Whatever. You swing at me. I’d take the sickle,” as he speaks, he demonstrates the technique. His movements are slow, elegant, and precise. They’re everything Dave had ever wanted to be in terms of form and technique. “Dominant hand attacks. Secondary blocks. Preferably, I’d catch the sword in the crook of the sickle and push forward with my left hand.

“Single-handed swords were easier, though.” Again, Karkat demonstrates as he speaks. “Catch the attacking wrist with the sickle, push it down, push dominant hand out.” He shrugs. “It’s a more evasive style than anything. I might have been raised in the Arena, but I never got all that into the bloodshed.”

“Oh.” The awe of Karkat’s technical precision drops quickly. It’s replaced, instead, by a deep, gnawing sense of guilt. “Yeah… I get that…” he lies.

Karkat, however, accepts the lie with a shrug. “I usually lost for the exact fucking reasons you named. Longer swords and faster weapons. Gold star for you, Strider, for pointing out the fucking obvious.”

Dave laughs nervously.

Admittedly, he knows it’s pointless for him to worry about Karkat finding out about his past. After all, he _was_ the Arena Champion. And you don’t earn that title by having tea parties and talking your problems out. The title of the Arena comes with inherently bloodied hands. And, yet, the ease Dave had been enjoying for the past few hours has vanished. Now, there’s nothing but a deep, lingering sense of dread.

In an attempt to dispel this awful feeling, Dave rises from his seat and collects a pair of wire clothes hangers. He idly twists them into the rough shape of a sickle, manipulating both at the same time, before glancing at a thoroughly confused Karkat. “Show me,” he says, tossing the makeshift weapons to Karkat.

By the time Karkat’s caught them, Dave has chosen his weapon—a broom handle, sans the actual broom. He holds it like a proper one-handed longsword.

“You’re an idiot, Strider.” Despite his words, Karkat jumps from the bed. He positions the tube so that it’s providing a constant stream of air before quirking his brow.

And Dave, taking this as the signal to begin, tries to aforementioned attack. A large, sweeping, downwards arch of the blade—or, rather, broomstick—that stops suddenly. At the same time that the blade is caught and deflected, one of the sickles appears dangerously close to the left side of his face. “Where’d you learn those moves?” he says with a smirk.

Karkat, in return, shrugs. He drops his weapons and raises his hands into the air. In the context of standard Arena practice matches, it’s the universal sign to back down. And, as Dave complies, he stumbles backwards. He catches himself on the bed and spends the next two minutes breathing.

“You okay?” Dave mutters. “You’re free to sue me for any personal damage I cause.”

“I’m fine.” Karkat’s voice is slightly quieter and more strained than before. After a few more seconds, however, he straightens his back and seems to regain his composure. “To answer your question, though, Strider, I have no fucking clue. Mostly made it up. Sickle fighting is something I pretty much pulled out of my ass.”

“Oh. So… you’re fine? Because I can call John and he’ll come right on over.”

“Yes. I am fucking fine. Peachy as fucking hell. Why’re you so worried, anyhow?”

“Because…” Dave cuts himself off. He forces himself to think of something—anything—besides the fact that he’s got the ever-growing suspicion that he’s fallen for the Knight of Blood. “You’re pretty cool, I guess?”

“That’s one suspicious fucking answer, Strider.” Karkat’s commentary is accompanied by a smirk. “If I was a security guard and that comment walked into my shitty mall, its ass would be going straight to questioning.”

“Why? Because it’s acting mildly inappropriate?”

“No. it’s because it has twenty-three different forms of identification glued to its naked body and not a single fucking one is actually theirs.”   The smirk widens. “I’ll let you go, though. Might as well give the fucker who busted me out of the Arena a free pass. Once. There you go, Strider. This is your one fucking Get out of Jail Free card. And it’s gone now! You’ve used it! If you’d like a more visual explanation, I’ve torn the rectangular chunk of dead, processed tree into a billion pieces. They now float like clueless, ugly little butterflies on the wind, which leads them into a fucking volcano.”

Distracted by the unexpected tirade, Dave can’t help but laugh.

And, to be honest, his laugh isn’t exactly graceful. It’s not even one of those cool, barely-there things. No, it’s almost exactly like Egbert’s. It’s an awkward noise broken up between disgusting snorts. And, yet, for some reason, Dave doesn’t mind the display as much as he thought he would. When he’s finally recovered, though, he immediately reapplies his usual façade. He shakes his head slowly. “Not cool, Karkat. Not cool at all. Making an Officer of all Things Rad laugh is an offense punishable by death. I’m going to have to report you to the Cool Police now.”

“Oh no. What’re you going to do? Talk me to death?” Despite his admiral attempt to continue with a straight face, Karkat, too, loses his composure. From him comes an odd, breathy, yawning noise that repeats itself back to back. Presumably, if the smile on his face is anything to go by, it’s his form of a laugh.

Dave, meanwhile, does his best to memorize the image.

The smile seems so out-of-place on his face. But, somehow, it still looks like it belongs there. It’s an odd feeling. An odd thought for Dave to have. It’s a perfect smile with dimples as a bonus. Looking at it, it seems to be made for Karkat’s face—tuned to finely match his features. And, yet, it’s such a rare thing. It’s so out-of-context and out-of-character that it’s almost surreal.

But, it’s not.

And, all too soon, Karkat regains his composure. The smile fades and is replaced, instead, by his usual look of mild continuous uncertainty.

It was there, though.

It was there. And Dave remembers it.

It happened.

As if the universe knew everything Dave wanted and at which exact point he absolutely did not need it, he’d been given a… Could he call this a gift?

…Could he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> blah blah blah college is a responsibility blah blah blah  
>  **nl;dr: i have to be a responsible adult and write a paper and shit so updates will probs slow down now**  
>  comments and feedback are always welcome and if you like any of the music i needlessly append to chapters _most_ of it is available on itunes. otherwise it's on youtube


	7. 槍

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [**Omake-Pfadlib**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YJu05VJee2Y)  
>  Hiroyuki Sawano  
>  ** _Attack on Titan [OST]_** 2014 | Pony Canyon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Spear](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Qiang_\(spear\))

When Dave wakes, the world outside the window is still dark. Not even the smallest sliver of sun has managed to show itself above the horizon and, yet, he’s awake. He’s awake and there’s a familiar voice calling his name.

“Hey. Um. Strider?”

He frowns and rolls over to find Karkat standing above him, frowning. “What?” he mutters.

“I…” Karkat hesitates. He looks at the ground, and falls silent.

And, somehow, Dave knows what it all means. It’s so familiar. “Bad dream?” he asks.

Karkat nods. “Yeah… I guess… I mean… It was so…”

“Real?”

“Yeah.” Karkat sits down on the edge of the pull-out bed. However, he keeps his distance. He folds his hands in his lap. “Sorry. I just…”

“Wanted to make sure you weren’t still in the Arena?”

Another nod. “Yeah. Sorry. It was fucking stupid of me to wake you up.”

“Nah.” Dave yawns. He stretches his arms above his head and gets out of bed. He slips into his tennis shoes and motions for Karkat to follow him. (Sure, _he_ doesn’t mind being woken up. John, though? John will _not_ be happy if he’s woken prematurely.) He begins to lead Karkat to the rooftop garden—a safe, contained area that, by this time of the night, is nearly silent. “I get it.”

“Yeah right. Dave Strider? Understanding feelings and admitting to it?” Karkat rolls his eyes.

“No, really, dude. I feel you. Like… Heart to heart or whatever the fuck they call it. I completely understand.” Dave pushes the door to the garden open. As he predicted, the only noise to be heard comes from the distant traffic at the absolute center of the city. It’s little more than a distant hum and, above them, the sky is clear. The stars are bright and numerous.

Karkat notices this, too. “Maybe the stars aren’t all that bad…”

“Hm?” Dave frowns.

“The last time I saw those fucking things was the last time I had a nighttime battle slot.”

“I always hated those. Fuck those.”

“Yeah,” A small smile works its way onto Karkat’s face. “To cut the long, excessive story short, I got the shit beaten out of me. Good news was that I got an eye poked out, so they weren’t legally allowed to actually keep me on the night team.”

Dave snickers. “Fucking ridiculous that they had those laws, ain’t it?”

“Yeah. What the fuck were they protecting?”

“Their own asses? Who knows?” Dave shrugs. He buries his hands in his pockets and listens to the sound of Karkat’s breathing. It’s oddly rhythmic. Hypnotic, even.

“Sorry for waking you up, Strider.”

“I’m telling you that it is fucking fine. Promise.”

“Well…” Karkat frowns. He shivers.

Dave reacts by pulling off his sweatshirt and throwing it haphazardly at Karkat.

“I don’t want your fucking germs, Strider.”

“Fine. Then you can freeze.” Even as the words leave his mouth, Dave notices that Karkat is pulling on the sweatshirt.

Right now, Karkat is positioned so that the fake eye is closest to Dave. Presumably under the assumption that he’s not being watched, he buries his face in the fabric. He inhales deeply—or, at least, deeply for him. “I… I never really thought I’d be out of that fucking concrete shithole.”

“I didn’t, either.”

“So… Is this… normal?”

“No clue,” Dave admits. “I had them. Rose says it’s normal. A reaction to bullshit that happens to you, I guess. I don’t really fucking know.”

There’s a brief silence from Karkat. “To be fucking honest, I’ve got no clue where to go from here. Can I even go anywhere? Am I stuck in this fucking awful feedback loop of being the Arena punching bag?”

“Yeah… There’s not that much we can actually do. They’ll know who we are… or… were… They’d figure it out pretty fast.”

“I’m probably not in the best working shape, either.”

Dave frowns. He takes a seat on one of the benches and sighs. “Does it… hurt?”

“If this is a shitty pickup line…” Karkat begins, taking the seat beside Dave.

“No,” Dave shakes his head. “No, for once I’m being completely serious. Kind of worried but mostly curious, I guess. I just wanted to know. If you don’t want me to…”

“Yeah.” Karkat says it plainly. “They did a shit job on most of the surgeries. Add in the fact that they supposedly enhanced my spine. They didn’t, of fucking course. They just put a rod on it.”

“Oh.”

“Well, that’s me. So, Strider, what’re the shades for?”

“What?”

“You’re not wearing them right now.”

A sense of panic rises in Dave’s chest. He reaches to adjust his shades—to reassure himself that the mirror that hides his eyes from everyone’s prying gaze is in place. And, yet, it’s not. He frowns. “I… It’s…”

“You gave me a chance to back down. Might as well give you one, too, jackass.”

“No…” Dave takes a deep breath. He closes his eyes and gathers his thoughts. Rose has taught him about this. Breathe. Remember that it’s not happening. That it’s in the past. “I got them from the jackass I went into the Arena for. Called the bastard my brother. He gave me the shades and told me to make sure no one knew what I was feeling or thinking. It kind of stuck.”

Karkat nods slowly. He shifts the machine so that it’s atop his lap. “Yeah…” He bows his head and watches intently as the machine’s display shifts constantly. Numbers flash. Bars slide up and down. “I guess I really owe you, Strider. As much as I hate to say it…”

“No… You don’t owe me. Really. You don’t. I don’t need anything. Promise.”

“But… Arena standards…”

“That’s the cool part, dude. You’re not there anymore. There’s this new, fucked up world to explore. New and inappropriate places to take a shit.”

Karkat snickers. He rolls his eyes and meets Dave’s gaze.

And, in return, Dave can’t help but feel exposed. He’s keenly aware of the fact that his shades aren’t there. His eyes—the so-called portal to the proverbial and clichéd soul—are out in the open. And, yet, he can’t bring himself to break eye contact.

Karkat, however, seems to have what it takes. After a few seconds, his gaze darts back to the device in his lap. He coughs weakly. “I… Um… Thanks for listening to my shit.”

“No problem.” Dave locks his own gaze at the ornamental pear tree directly in front of him. “Arena fighters stick together, right? Well… no… but… Former Arena fighters stick together.”

“Yeah. Thanks…”

 

* * *

 

When Dave wakes, he finds his bed empty. A note set amidst the tangled sheets indicates that its occupant has gone up to the rooftop garden.

So, Dave eats. He throws on his usual pair of jeans and a bright red overcoat before taking the elevator to the roof. The building is twelve floors tall; but, the elevator ride is, as always, quick. The bells ring and the door slides open to reveal the short hallway which leads outside.

Through the glass door, Dave sees him.

He sits cross-legged on the ground beneath the large evergreen at the garden’s center. His eyes are half-closed and, if it weren’t for the tiny, thin clouds of breath which form in the cold air, it would’ve been fairly easy to presume he was dead. When the door opens, however, he jumps. When he sees Dave, he relaxes.

“You like plants?”

Karkat shrugs. “Not really. But it’s nice up here. It’s away from all the shit down there.”

“True.” Dave nods. “So, you want to do anything today?”

“Not really.”

“Mhm.” Dave nods. (It makes his job easier, at least.) “You want me to leave you alone for a while, then?”

“That’d be fucking lovely,” Karkat mutters.

Another nod from Dave. He returns to the apartment.

Before settling in to play some mindless games, however, he prepares a cup of warm water for Karkat. He would have prepared something more lively—hot chocolate, for instance, is his personal favorite for cold days—but, he doesn’t really know what Karkat can and can’t eat. So, he plays it safe. He delivers the steaming water silently.

And, as he sets the cup down, a hint of a smile flashes across Karkat’s face. “You might not be all that bad, Strider. Verdict’s still out, though. There’s still time for you to be deemed the world’s most irredeemable douchebag.”

“Same for you.” Dave throws the comment out on a whim. He offers a brief half-smile before returning inside and settling in for another day of mindless mobile gaming level grinding.


	8. 鹿角刀

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [**Canon**](http://chiasenhac.com/mp3/beat-playback/o-instrumental/canon~yuji-nomi~1505967.html)  
>  Yuji Nomi  
>  ** _Whisper of the Heart [OST]_** (1995) | Studio Ghibli

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Deer horn knives](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Deer_Horn_Knives)

Outside, the air is crisp and cool. It brushes against the skin pleasantly—strong enough to be felt, yet not powerful enough to cause goosebumps. The sun hides beneath a layer of clouds. Its light is dimmed, but still present.

For a day so close to the beginning of a Skaian winter, it’s wonderful.

And, not surprisingly, when Dave wakes, he finds that Karkat has left.

This time, he’s less anxious about it. Now, he knows where Karkat is. Few people go to the roof and, if they do, there’s only the smallest chance that they’ll engage in conversation with Karkat. After all, the only other people who go there are the cranky old people who only leave their apartments to go complain briefly somewhere else, usually the grocery store.

So, today, he takes his time. He prepares himself some slightly burnt pancakes for breakfast and enjoys the solace of an empty apartment. Then, once he’s ready, he departs.

He takes the elevator to the hallway.

Outside, he finds Karkat in his usual spot.

He’s set up beneath the tree. He’s gathered a stack of loose paper and, setting it against the hard surface of a likely unread coffee table book in his lap, he draws. His breath rises in short, hoarse puffs of condensation. The sweatshirt Dave had given him the day before protects him from the cold.

“Why’re you so fuckin’ interested in this shitty little garden? Like, really, it’s a concrete slab with plants on top.” Dave keeps his voice quiet and moves slowly to avoid startling Karkat. He takes a seat beside the man and glances briefly at the sketches.

They’re good. The style is thick and heavy-handed, but it’s coherent. In the tangle of lines and shapes, Dave can clearly make out the towers and buildings which stretch endlessly before them. It’s a dark, Caravaggio-esque shading system combined with the delicacy and precision of intaglio printing. (Not that Dave knows what any of that means; the author is an art history major and is only mildly apologetic.)

Karkat, in return, shrugs. For a few minutes, he continues to work on the cityscape he’s drawing. Then, abruptly, he stops. In the cold, his voice is quieter, scratchier. Presumably, it’s the lack of humidity. “I don’t fucking know. Why are _you_ so interested in following me like some lost puppy?”

“Bored.” It’s an honest answer. He _is_ bored. But, then again, Dave also can’t seem to take his eyes off Karkat. “Didn’t know you did art.”

“Taught myself in the Arena. Doctors are great at leaving pencils in cells.” He frowns and focuses on a single, distant point. He holds his pencil to it, sliding his thumb to mark its height, and chews his lip thoughtfully. Tapping the eraser end of the pencil against his papers, he takes another breath. There’s a mechanical huff and, as he pulls away from the tube, an odd wheeze—like pressure being released from a valve. “Not like there was anything to draw in that fucking place. I mean… There was. You had plenty of bland, ugly concrete walls to draw.”

Dave snickers. “You’re pretty damned good at drawing, though.”

“Nah.” Karkat shrugs. “My style’s shit.”

“I like it. It’s aggressive. It gives off this tough sort of don’t-fuck-with-me vibe.”

With a look of confusion and a small, badly hidden smile, Karkat glances away from his work and to Dave. “Wow. Amazing. Instead of intimidating people by reminding them of the ever-fucking-present concept of mortality, I can fuck with them by showing them my art.” Somehow, he gets through this entire comment with a straight face.

(Dave has to hand it to him for being great at throwing out some deadpan humor.)

“I don’t know,” says Dave, distorting his voice to sound like a stuffy old know-it-all, “You seem to give off this aura of liveliness.” He draws out his vowels to enhance the poorly constructed illusion of grandeur.

Karkat responds to this by elbowing Dave in the stomach. “Thank you, Professor Asshole.”

And, returning to his usual voice, Dave offers a snicker and some commentary. “Any time. I have a PhD in punching people, after all.”

“If you do, then I have to have one, too, you fucknugget.”

“Okay. Fine. You get a… the thing that’s before a PhD. A mini PhD.”

“Close enough for me.” Karkat shrugs.

The conversation lulls until the pair is surrounded by a calm silence.

At some point, Dave begins to feel sleepy. He yawns and, without really thinking about it, rests his head against Karkat’s shoulder. And, surprisingly, Karkat doesn’t remove him. He lets him stay in this position even as his eyes begin to slide closed and he drifts into an uneventful slumber.

 

* * *

 

Around six o’clock, John calls to break the news that he’s been assigned to an emergency surgery.

As he won’t make it home in time for dinner, Dave opts to throw together some macaroni and cheese from a box. He also takes it upon himself to do the rather unsettling job of squeezing the syrupy goop from the medical pouch and into a cup for Karkat.

After finishing dinner, he joins Karkat on the mattress of the pull-out sofa bed. They watch mindless television—some pointless historic film about stealing the Declaration of Independence.

And, slowly, Karkat mirrors Dave’s actions in the garden. His eyes slide closed and, after a while, he ends up leaning against Dave.

(Here, Dave gets his first chance to actually smell Karkat without seeming excessively creepy. Naturally, he takes it. It’s a pleasant smell—an aroma comprised of cigarette smoke and, oddly enough, an implacable citrus tinge. A sting that’s reminiscent of an orange. Or… maybe a lemon?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> being responsible is for losers the REAL cool kids write indulgent fanfic


	9. 風火輪

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [**Doll's Polyphony**](https://soundcloud.com/foretfantome/dolls-polyphony-geinoh)  
>  Geinoh Yamashirogumi | 芸能山城組  
>  ** _AKIRA: The Original Soundtrack_** (1988) | Victor Music Industries, JVC Records

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Wind and fire wheels](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wind_and_fire_wheels)

From time to time, Dave will get this craving—this insatiable lust—to ride the heavily modified motorcycle he’d build over the past few years. He needs to feel himself slicing through wind like it’s butter and get the rush of a good, sharp turn. One where his knee comes just a breath away from touching the pavement. He needs to feel the rush of a good, long journey—a fast-paced adventure where the world literally blurs past him.

For Dave, it’s a sort of strange catharsis. It’s a means by which he obtains the same high he used to get in the Arena. It’s something to get his heart pounding in his chest. And, living closer to the edge of Skaia has its perks. One of them is that Dave can easily do this. Don a bright red helmet with a black visor and, suddenly, he’s anonymous.

He’s any other thrill-seeking idiot with a possible death wish speeding through the rugged terrain of Old Skaia. And, as he’s learned, that terrain is perfect for all sorts of tricks.

Pick up enough speed and you can, for the briefest of moment, feel as if you’re floating over the potholes and cracks which dot the pavement.

It’s an exhilarating feeling. And, as Dave returns to the apartment, its energy is fading. The thrill is already receding. Meanwhile, the first rays of morning’s light twinkle over the horizon. The sun begins to rise.

Dave sneaks back into the apartment.

By now, John should be waking up. His alarm for the early morning shift would have gone off perhaps a minute or two ago; and, even if he doesn’t have to get up, he will. He’s always been one of those people—the type who gets boundless energy from just a handful of hours of sleep.

And, when he enters, he’s not disappointed. John’s privacy cover is closed, though a small portion of his long white coat sticks out, caught by the door.

Karkat, meanwhile, is curled up in Dave’s bed. By the looks of it, John’s brought home something else… Or, rather, he’s brought home a wealth of new things. Various nutritional packets in a range of colors are set on the counter. Grouped by color, each haphazard stack is accompanied by a note written in large, all-lowercase, near-illegible handwriting—grape, orange, peach, vanilla, and chocolate. (In Dave’s opinion, it’s an atrocity that these are the only flavors that John brought. How could he neglect the most important flavor of them all? _Apple._ Where is the apple flavor!?) Moreover, there’s one of those fancy pods that John uses at work on the bedside table. (Perhaps, he should start calling it Karkat’s bedside table?)

They’re the ugly, squat ovals with drawers that you put medical supplies into. Push the button and some magical scientific shit sterilizes it. Presumably, the mouthpiece Karkat had been using is in there. Now, he’s got something that seems more powerful—a relatively thin tube which hooks over his ears and has a slightly larger piece beneath his nose. A glorified oxygen line of sorts.

Now, being completely unqualified to provide medical advice, Dave can only guess at its function. He does note, however, that it seems to be having a positive effect. Karkat’s breathing is quieter and, as Dave thinks about it, a sneaking suspicion that this might be why the additional attachment was brought home begins to grow within him.

Sure, John’s a nice guy; but, even he can have his motives.

Regardless, Dave sets his helmet on the table near the entrance and crawls into bed. With his leather jacket on, he doesn’t bother to pull up the covers.

(Besides, a leather jacket is _leagues_ beyond a standard blanket. Who needs a blanket when you have genuine leather biker equipment? Not Dave Strider.)

 

* * *

 

To be honest, Dave doesn’t know how the conversation got started. All he knows is that Karkat asked him about whether or not he liked the adrenaline rush the Arena gave him and, now, he’s spewing absolute nonsense. And, coming from his own mind, that’s _a lot_. Normally, even his own harebrained babbling makes sense in his head. Now, though, he’s letting it flow. All concern for logic and sense have flown out the window like a frightened crow. “You’ve got to grab life by the arm and scream as you put it in the fuckin’ sweetest hammerlock known to mankind,” he says, somehow with a completely straight face. “The crowd goes wild. They chant your name as you throw that fucker called life down a fuckin’ well.”

Karkat, not surprisingly, reacts with a furrowed brow and a confused whine. “You’re not making any goddamned sense, Strider.”

“No. No! I am making perfect sense! I am seven hundred and three percent reality-driven.” (It’s odd. The only other people Dave has ever been this relaxed around are John, Rose, and Jade.) “Kick life’s ass. Interrogate it until it confesses all the wrongs it’s done to you. Then spoon-feed it banana-flavored ice cream.”

“Okay.” Karkat sighs. He rolls his eyes and seems to make an executive decision to follow this out-of-control train of thought. “And we’re feeding life _specifically_ banana-flavored ice cream because…?”

“Because banana-flavored ice cream is the bane of my damned existence. It’s terrible. Like, holy shit, you’ve gone and fucked up a perfectly good dessert by making it taste like a pulpy fuckin’ vegetable.”

“A banana is a fruit,” Karkat mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Whatever!” Dave throws his arms in the air in defeat. “It’s gross. I don’t give a fuck if it’s a condiment! It’s gross.”

“So… Let me get this straight… We, the fuck-witted humans, are supposed to beat the shit out of life? And then we torture it?” There’s something comedic about his look of dismay. A sort of deep, gut-busting air of pure confusion which hangs around him like a thick, concentrated fog.

And Dave, for lack of anything better to do, keeps it going. “Exactly! Life is ours for the taking. Slice that fucker up and slap it on a pre-warmed plate. One of those nice, fancy ones with the gold edging. You want the arm?”

“Not really.” Karkat folds his arms across his chest. “Do you listen to the shit which spews from your mouth like rotting, putrid sewage or is it just a thing that happens? Because, as someone with a pulmonary condition, I feel obligated to file a complaint. You are hogging the air with your vapid, pointless lip-flapping. I mean, fuck, you can talk all fucking day and make not even the tiniest bit of sense. Amazing. Someone get this asshole over here an award for bringing surrealism into the world of verbal conversation.”

“Aw, hell. I get an award?”

“No!” The look on Karkat’s face is either one of pure exasperation or mildly amused annoyance. “Remind me to never try and start a conversation with you.”

“Why not?” Dave pouts. “Rose says I’ve got a vibrant personality once you get to know me.”

“Yeah. Vibrantly awful.” A short huff—Karkat’s version of a sigh—precedes his continuation of the commentary. “Back to the original topic. What the fuck do you do on that screaming death bike, anyhow?”

“Stunts so rad they will blow your fuckin’ mind.” Again, Dave manages to keep a straight face as he says this. He commends himself for a job well done. “My favorite is a pothole pop.”

“Please tell me you made that godawful name up.”

“Nah. It’s standard Old Skaian biking lingo. Pothole popping is when you find this nice, big, deep pothole and you ride over it so that you get some air time. I like to find ones with little ramps and do a sick-as-fuck wheelie over them.”

Karkat responds with a look of faux amazement. “Wow. And you haven’t spattered your piss-drenched brains all over the pavement?”

“I wear a helmet.” Dave shrugs. “And I’ve taken a few nasty spills. It’s part of the fun.” Despite the stoic façade he’s managed to put up throughout this nonsensical conversation, Dave can’t help but smirk as he recounts one of his favorite post-crash stories. “One time, I got John flipping the absolute fuck out. Seriously, it was a mild concussion. But he was out there. He was dragging my ass straight to the emergency room. And all of his doctors buddies were all like, ‘Chill, this guy’s just got a real bad headache. He’s fine.’”

“You really do act as mind-numbingly stupid as you look.” Another sigh. Karkat wanders to the kitchen area and plucks a grape packet from the selection. He pours himself a glass and returns to the pull-out bed that he and Dave have been sitting on for the past few hours. “Taking a break in this train wreck of shit-flinging monkeys and being completely serious, though, I’m getting pretty tired of talking.”

“Am I not the most refreshing person to converse with, Karkat?”

A small smile makes a brief appearance on Karkat’s face before it’s suddenly suppressed. “Not really. But you know what I mean. It’s pretty damned annoying to stop every few fucking seconds.”

“Yeah. Okay. Got that.” Dave nods.

Then, he pauses.

The world seems to shift. It comes into focus and fades. He frowns. There’s a sound—somewhere, far away, there’s a sound. It’s a familiar sound…

“Hey. Hey, Strider.”

For some reason, the world seems slightly dulled. And it’s not his shades; no, he’s gotten used to the color distortion his shades produce.

“Strider!”

Dave jumps. “Fuck! What!?”

“You okay? You checked out on me more than usual a few minutes ago.” Karkat frowns. For the first time, Dave gets a sense of the softer side of the Knight of Blood.

“Yeah. Fine.” Dave lies. He rubs his eyes and blinks. Now, the world seems normal. Everything is as it should be; but, somehow, it feels wrong. There’s something missing… “What? You look like someone rubbed hot sauce on your favorite cup or something.”

“Nothing.” Karkat’s words echo Dave’s. He offers a nervous huff and turns his attentions towards the television.

Right now, there’s a new segment about some irrelevant festival occurring in the center of Neo-Skaia.

 

* * *

 

Dave doesn’t tell John about what happened earlier.

He doesn’t confide in Rose, either.

Nor does he inform Karkat.

Instead, he convinces himself that it’s just another symptom of being stuck in one place for too long. He figures he needs to plan some sort of outing—a trip to the city, perhaps? After all, in the city, no one really pays attention to you. No one will recognize him.

And, so, with this in mind, he checks the clock. Its display confirms what he already knows.

It’s late. Even if he doesn’t have anywhere to be or something to do tomorrow, he needs to get some sleep.

As per usual, he yawns. Stretches his arms above his head. His head hits the pillow and, shortly afterwards, he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [indulgent fic intensifies]


	10. 蠱

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [**Bus Stop**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Of-vFOeh2g)  
>  Joe Hisaishi | 久石 譲  
>  ** _A Scene at the Sea_** (1991) | Toshiba EMI, Milan Records, Wonderland Records

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Gǔ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gu_\(poison\))

Over the next week or so, Dave and Karkat grow closer together.

And, with each passing day, the world begins to blur. It’s slow at first. Things at the very edge of his visual field disappear. Objects outside of the center of his vision blur.

However, he keeps it to himself.

He convinces himself that everything is fine. He avoids riding and engaging in activities that involve a great deal of visual acuity.

Nothing to worry about.

Nothing to fear.

He’s a Strider, after all. Striders don’t show weakness. And they don’t show it because they never feel it. Fear and pain and sadness are fine and dandy in others, but they’re just not how Striders operate.

And, then, one day, the colors are gone. The world is either white expanses of light or inky grey darkness. Light. All he can see at this point is light.

 

* * *

 

“Strider. STRIDER.”

Dave jumps. Suddenly, he’s keenly aware of his surroundings. He feels something cold and wet on his shirt and notes that the finger he’d discretely extended into the glass to gauge its fullness is completely covered in apple juice. Heat rushes to his cheeks; but, otherwise, he maintains his composure. “Yeah?” He quickly rights the bottle he’s been pouring and screws the cap on.

“ _Yeah?_ ” There’s a definite sense of confusion in Karkat’s voice. “You’ve poured juice all over yourself, Strider, and all you can say is ‘yeah’?”

“Mhm.”

An odd, breathy noise. A mechanical whine pushes air in and a lull in activity allows for air to naturally come out. There’s a strange, off-putting gurgling noise which resonates from about where Karkat’s chest should be. The cycle repeats until there’s a quiet, muffled pop. Karkat’s released his hold on the straw. The seal is broken, and the machine’s periodic noises cease. “You’re freaking me out here, Strider. What’s up?”

“Nothing much.” Shrugging, Dave jams the bottle of juice back into the fridge. “Everything is perfectly fuckin’ peachy here.”

“Strider.”

(Dave gets a sense that Karkat is frowning. Given the context, it wouldn’t be surprising.)

“Karkat. Great. We know each other’s names! Wow!” A display of halfhearted jazz hands punctuates his statement. Then, he drops his voice to a more sincere tone. “Dude, chill. Everything’s fine.”

“You’ve been wearing your shirt backwards all day.”

“What?”

“You’ve been wearing your shirt backwards all day.” Karkat repeats himself perfectly. He sighs.

Dave feels an enigmatic glare digging into him. “Yeah. So?”

“What am I wearing?” The voice is so matter-of-fact, so flat. Not a single hint of sarcasm or insincerity is attached. It is Karkat’s voice in its purest, uncensored form; and, for some reason, it’s terrifying.

It drills through Dave like nothing else. Not even Bro or John or Rose can do this.

Still, he has to keep the illusion maintained.

He offers an anxious laugh and moves towards Karkat. “Totally. Um… Yeah… Let me…” The pure whiteness of light is dimmed, now. He hesitantly reaches forward and feels his fingers brush against soft fabric. The surface is covered in pills from its most recent washing. The sound of Karkat’s breathing echoes in his head. He feels as if a thousand eyes are locked on him.

“A sweatshirt.” Dave answers with conviction.

If his entire world—the reality he’s built for himself—is about to collapse, (as it most certainly is) he’s not about to let it go without a fight. His fingers wander up, catching briefly on the inside of a hood before landing on the tube Karkat breathes through. He withdraws his hand quickly and steps back. “One of my sweatshirts. John hates hoods on his sweatshirts. Says that babies love to grab the hoods and pull.”

An oppressive, weighted silence descends. Except, now, it doesn’t come gradually. No. It crashes down like a freefalling block of pure lead. It seems to shake the world beneath Dave’s feet as it lands.

And, then, there’s an answer. “So… The rumors are true?”

“What rumors?”

“When I was in the Arena, they used to tell us that everyone had something they would lose if they left. I thought it was just another fucking scare tactic but…”

“Don’t tell John,” Dave interrupts.

Karkat sighs. “He’ll figure it out soon enough.”

“But not now.”

Another stretch of silence. Then, after a particularly hoarse breath, Karkat answers, “Fine. I won’t. But I’m not getting my ass burned because you’ve got some sort of fucking inexplicable complex of secrecy going on.”

 

* * *

 

The first memory that Karkat can recall is the moment he realized that he was destined to be the punching bag—the training dummy that people relentlessly pummel into dust.

He’d always had problems with his health. He was cordoned off with what were often referred to as the weaker ones. Fighters in training with something deemed by the Arena management to be a disabling defect. Some of these people, like Karkat, were trained. They lived to see adulthood. Others were rejected and sent back to where they came from. Of these, few were ever heard from again. It’s assumed that they were taken as part of the underground market which runs between Skaia and Derse, its nearest neighbor. Anyone else left was often killed.

Karkat, however, got special treatment. During selection, he was cordoned off in his own little area—a spot next to the supposedly weaker fighters—and, when it was finished, taken to his own single room. At the time, he was four.

That is his first memory—of being pulled out of a group and doomed to what would become fifteen years of solitary confinement.

And, during those fifteen years, he would be poked and prodded and operated on enough for it to feel like a constant thing. He even remembers the supposed functions of many of them. Even as far back as six, he would be told the purpose of the surgery.

Muscle preservation. Cardiac pacer. Fortification of bone density. Improving lung function. He didn’t understand it then, and he still doesn’t understand most of it now.

And, yet, in the short time he’s been in John’s apartment, he’s received better and less invasive care.

The machine he was given works perfectly. Both nozzles—one ending in a straw-like shape, the other more akin to an oxygen line—have solved most of the problems Karkat had in the Arena. Loss of energy. Poor appetite. Mental fog. All of it is long behind him.

Now, he has Dave.

And, as these thoughts run through his head, it’s all starting to collapse.

He shouldn’t have done it.

He shouldn’t have gone behind Dave’s back and whispered the news to John. It was a bad idea. A fucking horrible idea.

“I really think that it’s better if you go back to live with Rose.” With his ear against the wall which divides the main hallway and the apartment, Karkat can hear John’s voice. The two of them—John and Dave—had gone into the hallway to discuss something. And, now, Karkat knows what it is. “I mean… I love having you here. You’re my friend. But it’s just not going to work. He needs more medical care than I can possibly give him with random drop-Ins at Rose’s.”

Now, Dave speaks. “I can’t just dump him here alone. He’s got to have someone to talk to. Someone who’s available damned near all the time.”

“Well… I can have Jade…” John begins.

Dave, however, cuts him off. “It’s a nice idea, but it’s not going to work. What Karkat needs is someone he already knows.”

“You _are_ the technical expert on this, but…” John sighs. “I really don’t know, Dave. I’ve got to think about this. And Rose has to approve it. She and Kanaya only really have room for one guest, so…”

There’s a poorly stifled groan of frustration. Probably from Dave, as he speaks afterwards. “I’ll get my own damned apartment if I have to.”

“And how’re you going to pay for it?”

“I don’t fuckin’ know. I’ll figure it out.”

“I’ll talk to Rose.”

Footsteps. The sound jars Karkat from his thoughts on the matter. He quickly retreats to the pull-out sofa bed and assumes the most nonsuspicious pose he can think of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol shit now i have to be responsible and do actual shit oh fuck
> 
> UPDATE: i forgot to say this. everything in parenthesis is something that dave, whom i've chosen as our lovely pov character, isn't (seeing( picking up on (or something he's thinking) that's just a PROTIP™ you can choose to ignore it or read it idek


	11. 牛尾刀

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [**Brotherhood: Postlude**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qoXM9paxclk)  
>  Akira Senju  
>  ** _Fullmetal Alchemist Brotherhood [OST]_** 2010 | Sony Music Distribution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Ox-Tailed Sword](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Niuweidao)

By noon, Karkat, Dave, and John have all piled into a self-driving taxi to go to Rose’s.

It’s not that long of a ride. Twenty minutes tops.

Still, Dave has a question that’s been burning a hole in his inquisitorial pocket for hours, and he’ll be damned if he’s just going to let it sit there unnoticed. So, as soon as the car starts to move, he starts talking. “Hey, John, can I get a dog now?”

John sighs. “No, Dave.”

“But I _need_ a dog,” Dave whines. He draws the word out.

Karkat, in the meantime, responds with a huff of poorly stifled laughter.

“We are not getting a dog. Our apartment’s not big enough.”

“I’ve got plenty of shit I can throw out.” Dave shrugs and offers a wide, smug smile. “C’mon. It’s for my physical wellbeing, John. I totally need the dog.”

“Oh. Jesus.”

“Yeah. About that. Jesus called. He says I should get a dog.”

(John rolls his eyes. A smile starts to work its way onto his features.) “Karkat, you’re sitting next to Dave. Make him shut up.”

To this, Karkat responds with a disinterested hum. (He pointedly directs his gaze out the window and does his best to refrain from interfering. The way he holds himself practically screams “I’m not getting into this shit.”)

“Okay. Fine. Let’s just take a minute to…” (John pulls his phone from his pocket. He does a quick internet search before continuing,) “Two weeks or more. You have to go to the place and travel for two or more weeks to get a dog. So, do you want an actual guide dog or…?”

Dave smiles sheepishly and shrugs. “I’m going to be real with you, John, I just want a dog. I love dogs. Dogs are the fuckin’ shit. They’re soft and fluffy and they can shit in the shoes of people you don’t like.”

“They… They can’t do that second thing, Strider.” Karkat interjects.

“No. They totally can. One of the Arena security dogs used to do it. He hated this one guard, so he constantly shat in his shoe and pissed on his bed.”

There’s a moment of hesitation before Karkat simply goes with the outlandish idea. “Yeah. Of course.”

John, in the meantime, lets forth a thoughtful huff. He taps his fingers against the table in the center of the car. “How about Karkat? Have you asked him?”

“Oh. Yeah. That would be…”

“I’ve got no objections to letting a massive, slobbering, furry fuckball into my space.” (Karkat shrugs and smiles wryly. He quirks his brow at John, as if to ask him what his move is.)

And, to this challenge, John returns an exasperated sigh. “Dammit. But, if you’re going to Rose’s, you’ll have to take the dog with you.”

“Fine with me.” Dave hums.

“Same.” Karkat’s agreement coincides with the car coming to a stop. The doors slide open and the usual voice is played through the speakers.

“Thank you for riding with us today. Stay safe! This car will depart in ten minutes.”

(John gets out first. He tugs at his white doctor’s coat before circling around to Dave’s side.) “Okay, dude, let’s try not to get blood on the street today,” he comments, resting his hand on Dave’s shoulder.

And Dave, in return, grabs onto John’s arm. Not that he needs it. Getting out of the car is little more than finding his footing. Once his feet touch solid ground, it’s little more than standing up. From there, he simply circles around the car until he’s facing Rose’s house.

He’s been here enough times to know what it looks like. How it’s laid out.

It’s a comfy two-bedroom home. One level with a basement and two bathrooms. The plain white door leads into a large space that houses the combined living and dining rooms as well as the kitchen. A hallway to the right leads to the bedrooms, each of which has its own bathroom. Plain grey tile roof and a charming pastel yellow paint job.

(If you were to tell Dave about such a house, he will undoubtedly stick his nose up at it. However, this one is special. He never found the washed out exterior to be offensive or odd. On any other house, it would look horrid. On Rose’s? On Rose’s house, it’s perfection.)

The trio walks down the short cobblestone pathway to the front door and, before John can even ring the bell, the door opens.

By her voice alone, Dave knows it’s Rose. “I understand you’ve gotten yourself into some… shall we call it… deep shit? Yes. You’ve managed to entrench yourself in some deep shit once again.”

(From memory, Dave knows, too, what Rose looks like. She shares a lot of physical similarities with him—the same golden blond hair and freckled skin which is neither dark nor excessively pale. He doubts that she’s wearing something other than her usual dark pink lipstick and, if he could still see it, he’d find that he is correct. He’s also correct in assuming that she still has the pink headband Kanaya gave her on their first date in her hair.)

“It actually wasn’t my fault this time, Lalonde. Totally fuckin’ random roll of shit luck. Like… Hm… Let’s say I’m playing a D&D session. I rolled for a puppy. Twenty’s the puppy. Instead, I got a one, which turned out to be the number for eyeball obliteration.” He shrugs. “So, anyhow, Karkat’s...” It takes only a second of listening for Dave to pinpoint the direction to point in. “That’s Karkat. He’s the asshole I busted out of the Arena. And you know John.”

There’s a brief pause—a moment of awkward silence. (Nervous glances are exchanged. John waves. Rose simply offers a nod of acknowledgement. She steps aside and allows for the group to pass into the main living area.)

Dave is quick to make himself comfortable. He pulls off his shoes and sets them near the door. A sense of comfort and warmth envelops him as his feet sink into the plush carpeting. “Sweet. You still have the same carpet.”

“Unfortunately, yes. We have to live with our feet touching your nasty germs every day. Does that satisfy you, Dave? Does that make something deep within your smug little soul infinitely happy?” Though Dave is perfectly aware of the fact that Rose very rarely ever breaks her usual composure, he knows that the commentary isn’t serious.

He offers a snicker of laughter in return. “Whatever. You and John can go talk about shit, now. I’m going to go rub my hands all over this sweet, plush floor rumpus.”

“That’s disgusting.” It’s some of the first commentary from Karkat all day.

“But have you felt it? Feel it. _Feel the softness._ ”

Karkat sighs. He hesitates. (And, then, he complies. He kneels down and rubs the carpet.) “Yeah. Great. Soft as fuck.” (He steps up behind Dave) and clears his throat to notify him of his presence.

“Hm. Yeah. You want to just… I don’t know. They’ll probably be a while. Is there still a beige leather sofa? One with a duvet on the right armrest but not the left?”

“No. It’s got a duvet on the left, not the right. You’re wrong, fucker.”

“Oh. Yeah. Blame the recently blinded guy for being wrong about which armrest the duvet is on.” Despite his commentary, Dave snickers. “You mind if I just follow you? I have a feeling they’ve rearranged since I was here a few years ago.”

(Karkat nods. Then, after a few seconds, he pinches the bridge of his nose as the realization dawns upon him.) “Yeah. Sure. Just don’t leave any slimy douchebag residue or whatever.”

“Easy enough. I’ll stop being a literal slug for a few minutes.”

“That’s so thoughtful, Strider.”

Having been cleared for contact, Dave reaches out until his fingers find a familiar, somewhat ratty fabric. It’s soft and covered in pills from frequent washing. “Another of my sweatshirts?” he comments as he grabs onto it.

“Fuck off. They’re comfortable.”

“Right.” Dave rolls his eyes. Anticipating a longer walk, he ends up running into Karkat’s back. He lets out a small, involuntary grunt of dismay.

Karkat, however, gets to the commentary before he can. “Way to go, Strider. This is just going beyond amazing.”

“Hm. Whatever.” Shrugging, Dave feels around for the seat. When he finds it, he drops into it eagerly. He smiles as the cushions cave in to accommodate him.

Judging by the uttered profanities and excessive movement to his left, however, Dave has a feeling that Karkat wasn’t expecting this.

“Welcome to leather sofa beanbag hell, dude. You’re never getting your ass out of here.”

It’s so warm. So comfortable. The air—the scent of lavender and old books. The quiet ticking of Kanaya’s antique clock collection. Dave yawns. Without really thinking about it, he drapes his feet over the armrest and spreads himself out. As he puts his head down, however, he’s stopped.

“Look. Hey. I’m all for sleeping your problems away, but I’d rather you… Ah. Fuck.” There’s a brief moment of awkward silence.

A pillow is set beneath Dave’s head and, then, Karkat unceremoniously lets go.

Not that it’s a long fall. It’s barely even a fall. Still, there’s a childish roughness to how he withdraws his hand—a sort of untrained clumsiness to his movements.

And, for some reason, Dave finds this hilarious. Not that he laughs about it out loud. No, he laughs quietly, to himself. And, when he’s finished, he comments, “You really need some training on being smooth. You can be a definite chick magnet, Karkat, but you need someone with the know-how to teach you.”

“Presumably _not_ you, you clueless baboon?”

“No. It’ll totally be me.” Dave smirks.

“Well, you’re going to have one hell of a time, seeing as I figured out with Terezi that I’m really not into girls. Or guys. Or… anything…” Karkat’s voice trails off. (He frowns and averts his gaze.)

“Yeah… Same…” A small shrug. After a short debate in his head, Dave removes his sunglasses. He clips them to the collar of his shirt and sighs. “So… it’s not… weird?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure if having me agree with something you’ve said should qualify as normal or fucking terrifying, Strider.”

“Yeah. Well…” Dave falls silent.

He thinks back to all the thoughts he’s had over the years. The constant, gnawing feeling that something is wrong with him. The bewilderment when everyone else around him seems to be interested in sex while he just… isn’t. And, now, he thinks of Karkat. He listens to the rhythmic hum of the machine.

“I mean… That makes two, right?”

“Yeah. I guess.” There’s another stretch of silence before Karkat speaks again. “You’ve got surprisingly nice eyes, Strider. They’re an absolute waste on a douchebag as huge as you, though.”

Dave, in return, snickers. “They’re kind of a waste in general. But, yeah. I guess I’ve always thought they were okay. Not the greatest.”

Another pause. This one is even calmer than the last. It’s less like the usual lead weight of anxiety and more of a comforting presence.

“Weird question.” Dave is the first to speak up.

Naturally, Karkat follows. “Probably a fucking weird answer.”

“Hm.” A long, thoughtful sigh escapes Dave. He closes his eyes as he continues, “Can I touch your face?”

“What the actual fuck, Strider?”

“It’s cool if you don’t want me to. I just wanted to see if I could get a sense of what you look like. Y’know, without the whole vision thing.”

“Fine.”

Dave nods. His extends his hand until his fingers brush against surprisingly soft skin. And, from here, he lets his hand wander. He traces Karkat’s jawline and matches it to the images which float around in his memory. It’s not exactly the hardest thing to do. Mapping what he feels in his mind is, to his surprise, actually pretty damned easy. At least, he thinks it is. And, as he withdraws his hand, he feels short, prickly stubble near the bottom of Karkat’s chin. “Oh.”

“Oh?”

“Didn’t know you had any facial hair. Always thought your face was smoother than me. And I am the smoothest person to ever step foot on this floating space rock we call Earth.”

“Yeah. Well you don’t have anything either, douchenozzle.”

“I have peach fuzz, asshole. Besides, I wouldn’t look good with facial hair. I can see you growing some, though. Maybe one of those nice, trim beards but without the mustache.”

“Fucking shit.”

“Try it.”

“How about I dump your ass on the fucking floor?”

“Sounds hot.”

Karkat tries and fails to stifle a laugh.

His laughter is much nicer than Dave’s (that is, at least in Dave’s opinion). It’s one of those mild chuckles. Refined. Elegant. It almost reminds Dave of Rose’s laugh. Or Kanaya’s.

“Fuck you, Strider.”

“Nah.” Dave shrugs. He folds his arms behind his head and yawns.

It’s hard to go to sleep without any set day and night cycle.

 

* * *

 

By nightfall, the trio has crammed themselves back into a self-driving taxi.

Winter is coming, and it’s apparent that none of them were prepared.

They all huddle around the central _kotatsu_ -inspired heater beneath the table.

“So, Egbert, any news?”

(John frowns. He glances at Dave) and lets forth a long, drawn out sigh. “It’ll be a week or two. Rose and Kanaya have some stuff they need to get out of the way.”

“Mm. Yeah. I’d hide the dead bodies before I came over, too,” Dave nods sagely.

(In return, John can’t help but smile. He rolls his eyes.) “Here’s the deal, though, dork…”

“Woah.” Dave raises his hands in the air. “Woah. Okay. So… Me or him?”

“You. I don’t know Karkat well enough to insult his character yet.”

“Fair enough.”

“I’ll be coming around once a week. If anything happens in the meantime, it’s your job.”

After mulling over the idea for a few seconds, Dave shrugs. “Seems fair enough.” He pauses. A cocky smirk begins to slowly spread across his face. “So… About the dog…”

“I’ll get you to damned dog tomorrow.” (John rolls his eyes. He’s smiling, though. It’s a common theme between the two—a sort of strange brotherhood marked by near-constant amusement and exasperation.)

Having received the awaited news, Dave congratulates himself with a short moment of indulgence. He allows himself the luxury of a brief but genuine smile. (What he doesn’t realize, however, is that Karkat is watching; his eyes are locked on Dave, and there’s something stirring within him.) “You’re the best adoptive brother, Egbert.”

“Yeah. Well… you are too, Strider. Sometimes,” John says, snickering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments and feedback are always welcome
> 
> i'm going to say here that i've decided to see if this fic can get turned into something larger. i've got a few plot things i wanted to play with. so this might end up being really long and/or ending abruptly. i don't know. the point is that i'm going to try and keep this going for a while. which definitely means no more update spam. but i'll update as much as possible.


	12. 三節棍

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Path of the Wind](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MZgBjQFMPvk)**  
>  Joe Hisaishi | 久石 譲  
>  ** _My Neighbor Totoro [TOS]_** (1988) | Studio Ghibli

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ **Three section staff** ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Three-section_staff)

Despite the fact that it’s one of a handful of sporadically scattered days off that John has, he lives up to his promise. He rounds up both Dave and Karkat and, once again taking a taxi, the trio departs for the animal shelter.

(It’s a fairly dilapidated building which lies on the line which divides the old ruins and the new city. The structure, itself, is a repaired shell of an old concrete parking deck. Windows have been added and the exterior has been painted a cheerful sky blue. The large patch of land which stretches out behind the building is contained by a large, sturdy handmade fence. The posts are little more than spliced together old bollards with three layers of mesh fencing spread between them. It’s actually a pretty shoddy-looking little dump; but, somehow, it still exudes this air of innocence. Or, maybe, that sense of innocence comes from the cacophony of yapping which can be heard from up to a half a mile away.)

The taxi comes to a stop in a loose gravel driveway. It rumbles over the haphazard paving. Its wheels push the stones together, causing a distinct, crackling symphony. Its brakes—wet from the early morning rain—screech to a halt. The customary announcement is made and the doors slide open.

And, as Dave stumbles onto the uneven turf, the apparent owner greets them.

(She’s a short and somewhat stout old lady. One of the stereotypical grandmothers with rose cheeks and eyes that sparkle with a passion for what she does. A pink slicker protects her from the rain, though her clothing is still covered in muddy paw prints. She smiles near-constantly—an observation that, if he’d made it, would remind Dave of Jade.)

“You must be John Egbert.”

(John nods.)

“And you’re looking for a dog?”

“I’m not. Oh. Hell no. I’m just the only person who’s qualified to act as a semi-adult in this group of doofuses.” (With a warm smile—one that’s meant to convey the message that he’s not entirely serious—John offers his hand. He jumps slightly when the woman accepts the gesture, as he wasn’t expecting such a strong grip. As soon as his hand is released, he buries it in his pocket.) “My friend, Dave, is looking for a dog.”

“Mhm. Well, I’m Ms. Paint. Normally, there are more people here but… Oh well. I’ll be helping you all today.” (She bows slightly before turning and walking towards the shelter proper.)

As he begins to follow, Karkat grabs Dave by the arm.

Dave, after this initial tug, gets the message. He follows the sound of Karkat’s breathing. By now, John’s managed to get his hands on a cane. He’s given Dave some rough instructions and told him to test it out.

In his hand, it’s surprisingly light. For something so long and seemingly sturdy, it weighs little more—and, as Dave thinks about it, probably less—than a math textbook. And, sure, it helps; though he gets a feeling that someone who was actually qualified to teach him how to use it would be more useful. Nonetheless, he holds the grip level with his waist and tilts the rod down and forwards. He sweeps it in front of him in slow, careful arcs approximately equal to and, then, a bit more than the distance from one shoulder to the other.

To his surprise, it helps. He manages to go without incident until Karkat stops. As he had yesterday, he keeps going. He runs into Karkat and stumbles back a foot or so. “Shit. Can you get a braking signal or something?”

(Karkat frowns. He turns when Dave bumps into him.) His reply is preceded by a sigh. “Yeah. Sure. I’ll run to the loud, beeping stop signal store _right now_ and buy one. Hell, I’ll buy twelve. Pass them out to everyone you know, Strider.”

Dave snickers. He flicks a switch on the control box at the top of the cane (the heaviest part of it, too) and listens as it automatically retracts inwards, until it’s about the length of a new pencil. He stuffs it into his pocket.

“Any specific breed?” Ms. Paint asks.

“Nope.” Dave shakes his head. “Karkat?”

“I like medium to small dogs, if that’s… worth… anything…”

“Well we do have…” Ms. Paint’s words are undercut by the loud screech of a gate opening. There’s a brief pause. Then, light, delicate footsteps come to Dave’s attention. They grow nearer until… “Hands out.”

Dave frowns. As he awkwardly attempts to guess the dog’s size, a kernel of apprehension begins to grow within him. Maybe he should put this off and wait until—Oh. Holy shit. It’s soft. So soft. Holy shit. It squirms in his arms for a moment before Dave feels its tongue against his face.

“This one’s probably a beagle. Has some other stuff mixed in, but she’s primarily a beagle.”

With a bit of effort, Dave manages to reposition it so that the dog is cradled in one arm. With his freshly freed hand, he gently strokes its fur. “Mhm.”

“Dave? Are you actually listening?”

Ignoring John, Dave continues petting the dog.

(By now, Karkat has taken interest. He stands beside Dave, eyeing the beast in his arms, and clears his throat.)

Dave, in return, turns towards the sound. “Oh. Yeah. I guess… If John doesn’t want her that makes her our dog?”

“Yeah.” (Karkat shrugs. He scratches gently beneath the dog’s chin. A small smile spreads across his face as he notices the dog’s tail wagging.)

“Do you want to look at any other dogs or…?”

John sighs. “No. I think these two found the one.”

“Okay. Then…” (Ms. Paint gestures for John to follow her.

And, rolling his eyes, John complies.) “I’ll go do the paperwork. Don’t drop it or something while I’m gone, okay?”

Dave nods. He listens as the footsteps fade away and, after a moment, hesitantly speaks up. “Hey… Karkat?”

“Hm?” It’s sound that’s only vaguely different from his usual breathing. Still, Dave’s been around him long enough to know the difference.

“What color is it?”

Karkat pauses. (He opens his mouth to speak and, after a second or so, closes it. He lets his gaze drift towards the dog in Dave’s arms.) “Creamy white. Big, shit-colored spot on the back. Same color markings on her paws. They look like unnecessary socks.”

Dave nods. “Cool.”

“So… you have a name or anything?”

“Casey.” It comes out on its own. It’s a name that Dave seems to think of on the spot; and, he kind of likes it. He likes the sound of it. He grins. Thinking about it, he probably looks like an overexcited asshole. He’s not going to be looking at his reflection any time soon, though, so he figures it’s not worth the effort of maintaining his usual façade. Besides, he’s holding a dog. He—Dave Strider, the boy who’d pined for a dog since he was three—finally has his arms on a fluffy canine companion. And he’s going to make sure the world knows how damned happy he is about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "oh so that's why the fic now features a dog named casey"


	13. 户撒刀

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Trisha's Lullaby](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l2kwie-gs2o)**  
>  Akira Senju  
>  ** _Fullmetal Alchemist Brotherhood [OST]_** (2010) | Sony Music Distribution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Husa or Achang Knife](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Husa_Knife)

The week passes quickly.

Eight days after adopting Casey, Rose calls to say that the house has been thoroughly Dave-proofed.

And, cleared for landing, Karkat and Dave make short work of packing. By the ninth day, they’re ready to leave. Dave, however, sent Karkat back first with Casey before he departs. He’s not about to leave without saying goodbye to John.

He knows it’s stupid. Or, at least, he thinks it’s stupid.

It’s shitty, pulpy sentimentalism. He’ll be back eventually; it’s not like Rose and Kanaya are holding him at their home indefinitely. It’s just…

John was the first person who ever treated him as anything other than an Arena fighter. He’d shown up out of the blue one day with a smuggled bag of Cheetos and slipped it into his hands. And he had that shitty, beautiful grin on his face. He’d asked Dave for his name, something he’d nearly forgotten to that point.

It’s just strange.

Now, though, Dave has time alone. He reclines in his favorite armchair for the last in what he anticipates will be a long time.

 

* * *

 

Two men stand in an office in the basement of the Arena.

One is a man with a black suit and fedora. A man with a red handkerchief which sticks from his pocket and a frown that seems to be permanently etched onto his features.

The man wears a collared tee shirt and black jeans. His eyes are hidden behind pointed shades.

“This is the second one you’ve lost, asshole.”

Despite the tirade of the first man, the second doesn’t move. His mouth remains a straight line—blunt, disinterested, and uncaring.

“Are you listening to me?”

“They’re both together.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw them. That bastard I told you to raise? The one we lost? He was bait.”

“Hmph.”

“The other kid should be pretty useless by now, too.”

“If your trap worked.”

“It did.”

 

* * *

 

“You’re still here?” (John frowns. He tosses aside his coat and walks up to Dave, who seems to be waking from a mild slumber.) “I thought you left this morning with Karkat?”

“Nope.” Dave shrugs. He feels a lump rising in his throat and promptly begins to beat it into submission. “Can’t leave without telling my best bro goodbye, right?”

John sighs. (He runs his fingers through his hair and approaches Dave quietly.) “You do know I’m going to be coming to visit a lot, right? I’m not dumping you at Rose’s, dude.”

“Yeah. It’s just… I don’t know. I’m going to miss you, you fuckin’ dork.”

“How touching.”

“I _am_ known for my eloquence.” Dave emphasizes his point by waggling his eyebrows.

As he was and is never the type to conceal it, John laughs. It’s a sound that’s so familiar to Dave—something that calms him. “You’re the _real_ dork, Dave.”

“Hm. Well. I don’t know Egbert. I…” He’s cut off as John wraps his arms around him. And, smiling, he returns the gesture. “Well shit. That was unexpected.”

“I’m going to miss you, too, you damned idiot.” There’s a distinctive wavering to John’s voice.

Dave sighs dramatically. “Oh. Oh come on, now, Egbert. Let’s not start with the waterworks. Like you said, you’ll visit fuckin’ tons, right?”

“Yeah.” John sniffs. (He rubs his nose on the sleeve of his shirt as a small smile creeps onto his face.) “I’ve just gotten so used to coming home and finding you hogging half the room.”

“Well, you’ve got some time to redecorate. Use it well before I come back and throw your ugly shit posters out the window,” says Dave, smirking.

For a few moments, there’s silence. (John reaches into his pocket. He fishes around, nudging his way through a handful of unused paperclips and gum wrappers, until he finds what he’s looking for. Then, he gently takes Dave’s hand and presses what he’s found into his palm.) “Well, we did it last time. You got something from me. What’s your offer?”

Frowning, Dave takes a moment to roll the item around in his hand. Initially, he has no clue what it is; and, then, it smacks him in the face. “Your loaded die? You’re giving me the twenty-sided piece of shit you kicked my ass with on multiple occasions? Low, low blow, Egbert.” Despite his words, Dave finds himself smiling.

To be honest, he’s surprised John even remembers. When he had first gone to Rose’s, he was scared shitless. John calmed him by proposing a deal—he’d keep something from Dave and Dave would keep something from him. When they met again, they’d return their respective items. In that case, John had given Dave one of his many magic wands and Dave had given John a deck of playing cards he’d found in the apartment complex hallway.

Now, as it was then, he doesn’t really have much to give John that isn’t already his. What he does have, though, is a small, smooth river rock—a bright red one he’d found on an outing with his officially declared “best bro”—that he’s kept as a good luck charm for the past few years. When he’s found this amongst the debris in his pockets, he offers it in exchange. As he feels it leave his hand, a wide, knowing smirk spreads across his face. “I guess you could say you… Rock my world?”

“That’s it!” John’s voice is a cross between what had initially been an attempt at an irritated yell and the laughter that actually came out. “That’s it, Dave! Out of my apartment! I’m dropping your ass at Rose’s _right now_. That was awful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes hello it is i SUPER RESPONSIBLE™ here to tell you to BE RESPONSIBLE™  
> lol no i'm not responsible at all i shat out an essay in record time just to write this tooth-rotting fluff


	14. 諸葛弩

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[The Sixth Station](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uHOYeXezhQI)**  
>  Joe Hisaishi | 久石 譲  
>  ** _Spirited Away [OST]_** (2001) | Studio Ghibli

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Repeating crossbow](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Repeating_crossbow)

“Just so you know, your dog is wonderfully cute, Dave.”

Having only arrived at Rose’s house about ten minutes ago, Dave nods slowly. There has to be more to this. Rose wouldn’t be taking the time to tell him this unless—

“She also shat on the floor. Toilet trained my ass,” There’s a hint of exasperation in her voice. Usually, when she has this tone, she’s rolling her eyes. Hell, Dave can practically picture it—her, in her black and pink sleepwear, rolling her eyes dramatically whilst keeping an otherwise straight face. He’s also willing to bet that her arms are folded across her chest. “Just thought I’d let you in. Keep you in ‘the loop,’ as you call it.”

“Thanks for the tip, Lalonde.” Dave smirks. He steps into the living room and breathes in the familiar aroma of old books and lavender. He knows who each smell belongs to, too. Rose, always the avid reader and a freelance writer, carries with her the distinctive scent of old books; her wife, Kanaya, contributes the lavender. And, now that he thinks about it… “Where’d Maryam go?”

Another sigh escapes Rose. “We’re technically both Maryam-Lalonde, Dave.”

“Yeah. That’s cool. Where’s Maryam?” Here, Dave freezes for dramatic effect. He raises his shades slowly and narrows his eyes. “She’s not hitting on Karkat, is she?”

“ _We’re lesbians, Dave,_ ” Rose grumbles.

“Oh. Yeah. I—”

(By now, Rose has had enough. It’s a little after one o’clock in the morning and all she wants to do right now is go back to bed. She runs her fingers through her hair, knocking her usual pink headband out of place, and rolls her eyes once more.) “She’s _asleep_. Like _every other reasonable human being in this house_.”

Dave nods. He drops the act. If there’s one thing he’s learned since he’s been free of the Arena, it’s that there are only a few things worse than the hell he’d escaped. Of all of these, the winner of first prize goes to the ill-advised notion of pissing off Rose. Sure, she might _look_ all elegant and harmless; but, get her mad and it’s a perfect formula for losing some fingers. Or a head. Or the consciousness tethered precariously within your corporeal vessel.

He gets the message. No need to repeat. “G’night, Lalonde.”

“Good night, Dave. The door locks on its own. You know where the guest room is.” (Rose waves her hand dismissively before trudging back to bed.)

And, once he’s alone, Dave sets the singular bag of possessions that he’s brought on the floor. He pulls out his cane and, after pressing the button to extend it, works his way to the bedroom. Before going to sleep, however, he orients himself within the space.

The bed is against the furthest wall from the door and in the rough center of the room. A bathroom is to the bed’s right. A nightstand, presumably topped by some sort of outlandish antique vase that will surely be broken before he leaves, is to the bed’s left. Karkat’s sleeping nearby—he can hear him breathing. Dave doesn’t bother checking exactly where he is; he simply retracts the cane and sets it on the bedside table before crawling beneath the plush covers.

 

* * *

 

As Dave wakes, he becomes more and more aware of his surroundings.

For starters, it’s warm. Not overly so; no, it’s pleasantly warm.

And there something nearby. Someone nearby. Actually, nearby isn’t the word he’s looking for. They’re beneath his arm and against his chest, drawn closely to him like a precious toy. Certainly, though, it can’t be what he thinks it is.

He moves his hand and finds something soft. Something light and fluffy. He begins stroking the softness under the presumption that it’s Casey. Except… There’s something off—

“I’m not the dog, you dim motherfucker.”

Dave jumps. He rolls backwards and ends up slamming against the floor.

There’s a loud groan of annoyance from nearby. Footsteps. Then, Karkat’s voice. “I’m not sure if I should be flattered that you thought my hair was soft enough to be dog fur or if I should be offended. You’re one clingy bastard, Strider. I woke up and you’ve got me in this iron grip and it’s just like… What the actual fuck, Strider?”

Softer footsteps approach. A small whine precedes the sensation of a dog’s tongue against Dave’s face.

And, having landed face-down, he simply groans.

“You’re acting pathetic, Strider.” (Karkat rolls his eyes. His arms are folded across his chest—they have been for this entire exchange.) There’s a gentle push.

Dave flops over onto his back. He frowns and squints at the sudden influx of light. “Jesus. Fuck. Am I dead? Have I gone and done it? Did I ascend the mortal coil? Am I in judgement?”

(Despite his best efforts, a bemused smile appears on Karkat’s face. He quirks his brow inquisitively.) “What the actual fuck are you going on about now, Strider?”

“It’s so fuckin’ bright.” Dave squeezes his eyes shut and breathes a sigh of relief.

“Nice way to try and change the topic. Clever.”

Still in a state that’s awkwardly positioned between being completely awake and still being asleep, it takes Dave a moment to process the commentary. When he does, he feels the heat rise to his cheeks. He has no doubt that he looks like some sort of cartoon character right now. “Oh. Shit. Yeah. Sorry if I made you uncomfortable or something…” He halfway expects a slap in the face—it’s how Bro would always tell him he’d done something wrong, after all. Or, maybe, if he was in a particularly volatile mood, a punch in the gut.

Instead, he’s met with that oddly charming, breathy laughter. (It’s accompanied by a rather nervous-looking Karkat. He hides his feelings well, though, burying them beneath the usual sting of his words.) “Actually, it was kind of nice. If you weren’t getting your fucking douchebag germs all over me, I might have enjoyed it.”

“Oh.” Still waiting… “So… You’re… Not going to kick my ass?”

“What?” (Karkat frowns. The inner edges of his brows come together to form a singular inverted arch of bewilderment.) “Why the fuck would I…” (His eyes widen. He instinctively steps away from Dave. He buries his hands in his pockets.) “No. You might be an insufferable fucking puddle of piss, but I swear to whatever deity you may or may not believe in that I would never fucking do that. Promise.”

Dave nods slowly. He’s keenly aware of how vulnerable he is. How vulnerable he seems. So, he does the only thing he knows to do in this situation… “What if I hit first, though?”

“Oh. Then I’d nail you straight in your smug face, Strider.” Karkat sighs. (He cautiously approaches Dave and kneels down beside him. Well… More like a squat. If Dave were to be aware of it, he’d proclaim that Karkat was taking a shit; it’s _that_ type of squat.) “You listening to me, Strider?”

Again, Dave nods.

“Great.” With a pointed gentleness, Karkat grabs Dave’s hand.

It fits perfectly. If hands could spoon, Karkat’s hand would be the little spoon. As this thought passes through his mind, though, Dave chastises himself for it. Too… Gay? Is the thought too gay?

“Come on, asshole, let’s make sure you didn’t knock any fucking teeth out. You ready to get off your ass for the day?”

Dave shrugs. “Yeah. Sure.” As he says this, he feels himself being lifted forwards. He works with the force and stumbles to his feet. And, as soon as he’s gotten his footing, he rips his hand away from Karkat’s. If Bro saw this…

Bro… Why is he thinking about him so much lately?

“Fuck. Again.” Fingers snap in front of Dave’s face. Karkat’s voice draws him back into reality. “You’re zoning out again, Strider. Ground control to vapid asshole. The spaceship’s on fucking fire and it’s about to re-enter Earth’s atmosphere and cause a cataclysmic impact.”

“Whoa. That’s some major shit.” Doing his best to shake off the lingering disgust he feels within himself, Dave goes along with whatever strange shit Karkat is throwing out to him. “I guess I’ll have to make a heroic sacrifice and pilot my spacecraft straight into the sea. Sink beneath the waves and be washed away forever. But I’ll go down as that fuckin’ rad astronaut who saved some remote Russian village from complete meteoric annihilation.”

Another laugh.

And, again, Dave feels his heart flutter. Again, he kicks himself. He can’t do this. He liked… He liked Jade. And Terezi. And… God. What the hell is wrong with him? He stumbles forwards, disoriented by his own thoughts. He trips on… something… Beneath his feet, it feels like a shoe. And he falls. Before he hits the ground, though, Karkat catches him.

It has to be Karkat. There’s no one else in the room.

“You’re freaking me out, Strider.” The voice is dripping with genuine concern. Its usual bite—the sarcastic sting which backs every word—is gone. The machine remains off; instead, there come short, rasping breaths and weak gasps for air. “Strider? Strider? DAVE?”

His name. He called him by his name. Dave snaps back to reality like a broken rubber band. The elastic has stretched to its fullest and, now, it breaks. It rockets forward until… “Breathe.” It’s more to himself than Karkat.

Even so, Karkat seems to become aware of his own lack of breath. The whine of the machine resumes its normal pattern.

Dave, having been abruptly and unceremoniously dumped into reality, spills the first things which come to his mind. “Sorry, Bro… Won’t do it again.”

“Bro?” (Karkat’s brows furrow. Somehow, though it would seem impossible, the edges press together even more.) “I’m… Hey. Jackass… Dave.” (A brief moment of realization flashes across his face.) When he speaks, the usual aggression is absent from his voice. “I’m Karkat. Dave? You still here or have you checked out to fucking Mars?”

“Mars.” Dave is growing more aware of his surroundings. He feels Karkat’s hands holding him up and he stumbles the rest of the way, until he’s on his own two feet without support. “Sorry. I… Never mind. It’s nothing.”

“Dave?”

“What’s with the first name?” Dave frowns. “What happened to ‘Strider’? I kinda liked that.”

“Oh.” (Karkat shrugs.) “Well, fine, Strider… If you say so…”

“I’m fine. Cooler than a fuckin’ snowflake.” As if to confirm this, Dave nods confidently. The confidence is fake; but, Karkat doesn’t need to know that. No, no one needs to know that the poise with which he holds himself is little more than a lie he’s told himself again and again: He’s a Strider. Striders hold themselves with all the confidence of the world. Because they _are_ the world. The world bows to him.

“You… sure?”

“Yes,” Dave answers with more aggression than he intended. He gets a sense that Karkat is shrinking away from him—that he’s reactivated the primal fear which drives every Arena fighter. “Sorry.” He blurts the word out gracelessly. “It’s nothing. Really. Don’t fuckin’ sweat it, dude.”

“If you say so…” (Karkat glances warily at Dave. He eyes him over and seems to commit a few details to memory.) “Might as well go see what sort of shit’s for breakfast.”

“Oh.” It’s easier to relax, now. Slowly, the pressure surrounding him lifts. He grabs his cane from the bedside table. Left foot forward, cane sweeps right; right foot forward, cane sweeps left. “Kanaya’s a fuckin’ chef queen. Queen of all chefs. She makes the best fuckin’ pancakes.” In fact, as he says this, he finally catches onto their aroma. He embraces the smell. He clings to it like the lifeline to reality that it is. “Really, Karkat, they’ll blow your fuckin’ mind. It’ll be like a volcanic eruption of realization. Like… ‘What have I been eating before this? Because this is so damned heavenly.’”

From behind him, Karkat sighs. Still, the sound of footsteps indicates to Dave that he’s following him. The softer, tinier footsteps also seem indicative of the fact that Casey is also tagging along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments, feedback, and constructive criticism are always welcome and appreciated


	15. 噴火器

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [**Denoument**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7VYsGNBgtlc)  
>  Tomohito Nishiura, Masakazu Sugimori, & Yasumasa Katagawa  
>  ** _Professor Layton VS Phoenix Wright [OST]_** (2013) | Suleputer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Pen Huo Qi](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pen_Huo_Qi)

It doesn’t take a whole lot of thought for Dave and Karkat to realize that there’s only one bed in the guest room. Deciding that they would simply share the bed rather than try and figure out who would sleep on the floor also wasn’t exactly hard to do. Whereas the actual living space is more than enough for all four of the occupants, its bedrooms and bathrooms are built with a more minimalist ideal. There’s enough space to move around; but, the only real furniture in the guest room aside from the bed is a bedside table and some cleverly designed drawers placed beneath the bed.

For the first day at their new place of residence, things have been fairly calm.

The day has passed without incident and, now, as the sun sets and everyone waits for Kanaya to call them to dinner, a thought pops into Dave’s head.

“Hey. Karkat.”

“Huh?” (Karkat turns. He stretches and watches absentmindedly as Casey trots up to him and sprawls out on the floor in front of his feet. “What? Is this a legitimate question, Strider, or are we playing another fucking game of pin-the-trivial-verbal-shit-to-the-paltry-conversation?”

“First one.” Dave snickers. “Who was your Stable?”

“Some jackass who never told me his name. Big, tall guy. Always wore this eye-strain ugly baseball cap and these fucking awful pointed shades. Why?” (Karkat stares idly at the straw attached to the machine which hangs at his side.)

Dave, however, has frozen in place. He can hear it—he can hear the crunching as the perfect glass box he’s built around himself begins to shatter. There’s a massive lump of fear forming in his chest. It smothers him and reminds him of something he’d been told time and time again as a child. ‘You will always be part of the Arena.’

And, after Dave has remained silent for a few minutes, Karkat seems to realize that something’s wrong. (He glances up, towards Dave, and frowns.) “What?”

(Rose, too, has frozen. Her eyes are locked on Karkat, whereas they had been fully devoted to the book in her lap just moments ago. Her lips are drawn into a thin, straight line.)

Of these two, however, Dave answers first. “That’s… Bro. You were owned by Bro.”

“Bro?” (Karkat’s frown deepens. His brow furrows into its usual state of annoyance.) “The guy you talked about?”

Slowly, Dave nods. “He… owned both of us?”

“Seeing as whoever your so-called ‘Bro’ was is known as one of the Arena’s most prolific Stables, it wouldn’t be impossible,” Rose says, her voice as calm and gentle as it always is. (She adjusts her headband and taps her fingers against the armrest of the chair she’s curled up in.) “But, if that’s the case, then…”

“John.” The name flies from Dave’s mouth like a bullet from a gun. “John. He took a blood sample from me. Said he took it to the lab and that people were fuckin’ stumped by what they found. I thought it was just a throwaway thing but…”

“What the fuck are you trying to get at, Strider?”

“You said that they told you that all fighters had something to lose, right?”

Karkat nods.

“Then,” Rose says, “It would seem as if there’s something in place that would be detrimental to any escaped fighters. I propose a sort of bodily toxin capable of destroying, for instance, one’s eyesight.”

“Exactly.” Dave rises from the sofa rapidly. (This startles Casey, who proceeds to scurry off, into the bedroom.) “I could kiss you right now, Lalonde. You’re fuckin’ brilliant.”

“Please don’t. I’m married.” (Rose offers a slight smile—one so small it’s as if it was never really there—and returns to her book.)

(Karkat, meanwhile, proceeds to stare blankly at Dave. His mouth hangs open, his brow furrowed in confusion.) “You’re saying that they planted _something_ that would attack you from the inside? What is this!? Some sort of fucking conspiracy?”

“ _Yes_.” There’s excitement in Dave’s voice. Just to listen to his words is enough to feel the energy which radiates from him. And the energy, itself, hums; it buzzes and swarms around you like angry bees. “ _Yes_. Exactly. It is. It fuckin’ is. And we just found it, dude. We could bring down the Arena for good with this shit.”

Karkat sighs. “Yeah? And who the fuck are we going to tell? We can’t just go and drop it at the feet of the King, Dave. ‘Oh, hi, we’re just former Arena fighters and one of us is dying and the other one is blind and we’ve got some completely unbiased and totally legitimate allegations that will blow your fucking mind?’” (He folds his arms across his chest as he continues,) “I love the idea, Dave. Really, I do. I’d love nothing more than to watch that fucking stadium turn into the leveled out dustbowl it should be, but we’re not getting anywhere with some theory.”

“But… the blood test…” The energy around Dave begins to slowly drop. “John…”

“The guy who broke you out of the Arena. Who, by the way, Mr. King Man, is completely unbiased, too. Him? How fucking credible does that sound to you, Dave?”

The energy drops more. Dave’s shoulders drop. His cocky grin fades. “I… But it’s… It’s scientific evidence.”

“You can forge that. I know plenty of people who forged their fucking drug test results to stay in the Arena. I’m willing to bet what damned little I have that you’ve seen it, too.”

“Yeah.” Another drop. Dave slowly sits down. He pulls off his shades and buries his face in his hands. “Fuck. We have so much fuckin’ evidence and…”

“Dave?” Rose speaks up. (She looks up from her book and, immediately, her concerned gaze locks onto the person to whom her comment was addressed. She marks her place and rises slowly from her own seat.) “Dave?”

“Did… I do something?” (Karkat frowns. He wrings his hands together and shrinks away from the scene in front of him.) “I… Fuck. I fucked up.”

“No, you’re fine, Karkat,” reassures Rose. “I’m just afraid that…”

As if on cue, Dave kicks the coffee table. (By now, it’s been cleared of everything but a few non-breakables—some books and a few other knickknacks.) All of this—primarily the decorative fake fruits—clatter to the floor. “FUCK.” The word leaves Dave’s mouth like an explosion. It’s loud. It’s angry. It’s filled with twenty years of bottled up feelings and suppressed thoughts.

“Well. Too late.” Rose sighs. (She turns and wanders away.)

And Karkat, left alone in the room with no clue of what to do, sighs.

“We’re so fucking close.” Another kick to the coffee table. “So fucking _close_.” Dave buries his face in his hands and sinks back onto the sofa.

(Uncertain, Karkat creeps forward. He, too, slowly sits down on the sofa. He keeps a good bit of distance between himself and Dave.) “Hey… Strider?”

Dave sniffs. He pulls of his shades and tosses them haphazardly onto the coffee table. He roughly rubs his eyes with his sleeve. Though he provides no reply, he turns to look at Karkat—or, at least, in his general direction. He doesn’t say it, but he’s listening.

“Strider… I… I’m sorry. I was being an ass.” (Karkat edges over, closer to Dave.) “You know what? I’m probably going to regret this for the rest of my fucking life... but… You want to bring down the Arena? I’ll help.”

“Really?” Without his sunglasses, Dave is keenly aware of where his gaze is pointing—not that he knows what it is pointing at. Still, he does his best to focus his eyes on Karkat. (In reality, they’re pointed several degrees to the left of him.)

“Yeah. I… Fuck. This is bothering me.”

A soft, surprisingly cold hand gently nudges Dave’s chin. Then, Karkat’s voice… “There. Now just… Turn and keep your eyes in place.”

Dave frowns. He quirks his brow and does his best to comply.

“Great. Done.” Karkat sighs. “Yeah. I’m serious.” (He folds his arms across his chest and, despite the work he’s done to fix Dave’s gaze, he turns away.) “Look, you busted me out of that shitty concrete hell. I might as well…”

And Dave, though still sniffling, manages a wavering smile. Without really thinking about it, he reaches out. When his fingers touch Karkat’s sweatshirt—or, rather, _his own_ sweatshirt—he pulls him into a tight embrace.


	16. 虹

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Memories | 記憶とともに](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hlG6-NK6N8Q)**  
>  Tomohito Nishiura | 西浦 智仁  
>  ** _Professor Layton and the Unwound Future [OST]_** (2008) | Level-5, Level-5 Orchestra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Two-headed rainbow dragon](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hong_\(rainbow-dragon\))

When Rose had first met Kanaya, Dave had been with her.

It was at an arcade in the mall. He had been dragged along as part of Rose’s so-called social rehabilitation.

And, for both of them, it was immediate attraction.

After all, Kanaya is—if Dave is being blunt—fucking beautiful.

She’s tall and carries about her an air of power. To even be in her presence prompts a sense of awe—a feeling that she can kick your ass in the blink of an eye. Her dark brown skin compliments her bright, jade green eyes and the streak of that exact color in her styled, short hair. And there’s something fascinating about how her posture—back straight, head held high upon a cloud of confidence and poise.

To be honest, Dave has always been somewhat jealous of Rose. She gets Kanaya—the ever-eloquent, beautiful Kanaya. No…

No…

That’s not the topic…

“Hey. Rose.” Dave speaks up from where he’s sprawled out on the sofa.

By now, both Kanaya and Karkat have gone to sleep. The Strilondes, though, they sometimes like to stay up late. They stay up and talk shit. But, now, Dave can’t help but think about something aside from the usual banal gossip.

“Yes, Dave?”

“Do you think that Karkat likes me?”

(Rose frowns. She looks up from the book she’s reading—some romantic novel about a lesbian couple where one of them is cursed to be a moose or something strange like that.) “Dave, if he disliked you, he would have left a long time ago.”

“Would he? I mean… John’s given him that machine and brought him things from the hospital…” Dave sighs. He rolls an unlit cigarette between the thumb and index finger of his left hand. “And I’m not… I don’t know. Who the fuck wants to date the former Arena Champion? I killed people. And… I… I guess it was kind of… Fun? That’s a bad word. Fuck. That’s an awful word. It was… Thrilling. Yeah. Thrilling…”

Rose sighs. “He likes you, Dave. You might not see it—”

“Nice joke.” Dave smirks.

Rose, again, sighs. “Not intended, but okay…” (She runs her fingers through her hair and shrugs.) “He looks at you. He looks at you _a lot_. I would dare to say that he stares at you.”

“Really?”

 

Karkat stands outside of the door to Rose and Kanaya’s room. He wrings his hands together and closes his eyes as he gathers the courage to knock. And, that courage is rewarded.

The door swings open and Kanaya, still awake and clad in the thick, fluffy black and green bath robe Rose had given her. “Karkat. I thought you went to bed.”

Karkat frowns. He steps back. “No… I…” He breathes in and, when he breathes out, the words escape him in a single, rapid stream. “Dave Strider is so goddamned wonderful I want to punch him in the fucking face and I have no idea what to do but…”

A smile spreads across Kanaya’s face. “You’ve come to the right half of the Lalonde-Maryam family.” She motions for him to come inside.

 

“He’s just so damned cute.” Dave grumbles. By now, he’s managed to get himself into a precarious position—his legs are thrown over the sofa’s backrest and his head hangs from where his legs should be. His arms are folded tightly across his chest—they’re a barrier, a wall which keeps his feelings in and Rose’s prying eyes out. “I can’t fuckin’ stand it. I just want to…” He groans pitifully and fumbles with his shades as they slide off of his face, finally pulled down by gravity. Ultimately, they slide through his fingers.

(Rose, in return, shakes her head.) “Dave… Look, Karkat likes you. _He. Likes. You._ Do you need it to smack you in your smug face like a frozen fish?”

Dave, in return, frowns. He reaches out and rubs his hand against the carpet in an attempt to find his shades. “Hot or cold?”

“You’re so, so cold, Dave. You’ve surpassed being cold and have now frozen.”

“Fuck.” Dave moves his hand. He opens his mouth to ask the question, but is interrupted by the sound of the door to Rose’s room slamming open. “Hm?”

“Fuck you, Strider.” It’s Karkat. His voice is as loud and powerful as he can make it. And, as soon as the words have left his mouth, he marches loudly towards Dave. He stops a few feet in front of him—somewhere behind the coffee table.

“Um… Hey?”

“You look like an absolute fucking idiot.”

A sheepish smile crosses Dave’s face. Heat rushes to his cheeks. “Thanks,” he mutters.

(Karkat rolls his eyes and suppresses a smile.) “I was… You…” (He shifts uncomfortably. His eyes drift to the floor.) “You… Maybe…” Another pause. Then, the words come out. They’re rushed and anxious and, yet, to Dave, they’re so strangely charming. “Fucking shit. Strider, you want to fucking date me? Go to some restaurant and some sort of bullshit venue and waste money we don’t have one food that won’t even taste good?” (With that said, he freezes. He chews his lip.)

And Dave, as his heart skips a beat, scrambles to right himself. He awkwardly works his way into a proper sitting position over the course of the next minute or so before answering. “Thought you’d never fuckin’ ask, you jackass,” he says, his cheeks burning hotter than they ever have.

Upon hearing this, Karkat lets go of the breath he’s been holding. (A relieved smile spreads across his face.) “I…” (As he stands in absolute shock, his smile grows. It grows and grows until it’s perhaps the widest smile of his life.) “I can’t believe it. I’m dating Dave fucking Strider.”

“You’re welcome.” Dave smirks and salutes Karkat. “Now, go to bed you loud-mouthed asshole.”

 

* * *

 

When Dave finally climbs into bed, he’s greeted by a familiar voice.

“You’re pretty late, aren’t you, Strider?”

Dave jumps. “Oh. Oh shit. Did I wake you?”

There’s a laugh—a laugh that makes Dave’s heart flip in his chest and releases a cloud of butterflies in his stomach. It’s enough for him to drop his guard—to allow himself the luxury of a sincere smile. “No. You’re fine.”

Nodding, Dave slips under the covers. “Good night, Karkat.”

“Good night, Strider.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this story might be going places and by "places" i mean revolutionary (like literal political revolution not like groundbreaking) territory so [shrug] but hey here have some fuckin cuties also comments comments are so rad please let me know what you think


	17. 燭龍

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Mist](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2EfrK_CvM9o)**  
>  Akira Senju  
>  ** _Fullmetal Alchemist Brotherhood [OST]_** (2010) | Sony Music Distribution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Zhulong/Zhuyin](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zhulong_\(mythology\))
> 
> why can't i write anything that doesn't end up being some massive grandiose drama idek if someone knows why please let me know
> 
> certain aspects of this chapter are based on my own experiences with dissociation so [shrug emoji] idek where i was going with this i mean i had a direction but now it is gone

Dave Strider finds himself reclining on the sofa. He absentmindedly twirls his retracted cane between his fingers and listens to the sounds of Karkat’s breathing. His mind is nothing short of a riot—a massive, overenergetic collection of buzzing, noisy thoughts. They ricochet off of one another and only serve to worsen the headache he’d woken up with.

Right now, Rose and Kanaya are busy. Rose has gone to discuss things with her publisher; Kanaya is off on a house call for one of her tailoring clients. Alone, Dave and Karkat have taken up residence on the sofa. Their backs are pressed against each other. While Dave wrestles with his headache, Karkat flips through one of Rose’s romantic novels.

“So… is this fucking it?”

Dave frowns. His cane slips between his fingers and drops to the floor. The noise of its impact is muffled by the carpeting and Dave curses silently before responding to his new boyfriend’s question. “What? Doing absolutely fuckin’ nothing all day? Every day? Because no one will hire us?”

“Exactly.”

“Pretty much.” A sigh escapes Dave. He runs his fingers across the carpet. “Unless we do something about it…”

“Like what?” scoffs Karkat. “Appeal to the King? He doesn’t give a fuck about us. Nobody does.” He slams his book shut (and folds his arms across his chest). “You’re just like John. You’re too fucking optimistic.”

A shrug. A long, heavy sigh. Dave closes his eyes. “I don’t know.”

“I can’t keep doing this, Strider. This is absolute fucking bullshit. At least something new happened in the Arena every day.” (Karkat’s gaze drifts to the floor. He notices that Dave’s cane is within his reach and scoops it up, dropping it into the pale hand of its owner as he continues,) “And we can’t go anywhere…”

Dave’s phone rings.

Karkat swipes it up and answers the call before passing it off to Dave.

_Unknown caller_.

“‘Sup?” It’s Dave’s usual greeting. It’s guarded, generic, and innocuous.

The voice that greets him is familiar yet strange. Without a doubt, it’s the voice of John Egbert. But it lacks its usual luster. The energy which always backs his speech is absent, replaced, instead, by hesitant defeat. “Um… Dave? This… This is Dave, right?”

“Why wouldn’t it be me?” Blond brows furrow in concern. “And where the fuck are you calling from?”

John laughs, though it’s pointedly hollow. “Skaian Federal Prison.”

“That’s a really shitty joke, dude. You did a pretty good job, though. Great acting and nice touch with the whole unknown caller business.” In his thoughts, Dave is reassuring himself. He claws frantically at any sort of hope he can find. Clearly, this is classical John; it’s a joke. It’s a horrible joke. “Really, though, where the fuck are you?”

“Jail.” His answer is so uncharacteristically terse. His voice is so disturbingly flat. “I… um… A kid in my unit died this morning. Not sure who it was, seeing as no one will tell me what the hell is happening but… Um… Poisoning. It was poisoning and… Um… I found the bottle in my office drawer. So I reported it and they arrested me on the spot and… uh…”

Dave shakes his head. “You’re shitting me, Egbert, right?”

“No.” The voice is still flat—it’s as if the John that Dave knows has been replaced. “But… Uh…” (Those pauses. The only time that John ever hesitates to this degree is when he’s under massive stress.) “Well… I’m kind of running out of time on this… um… The call is ending soon.” Another nervous, uncertain, and hollow laugh. “I’m really, really sorry, Dave.”

“For what?” Dave can feel his heart pounding in his chest. It beats as if it’s trying to burst from his rib cage. “John?”

“You and Karkat need to leave. They know you’re—”

The call ends abruptly.

And, at the minute the call ends, Dave loses touch with reality.

His mind detaches itself from his body and an uneasy floating sensation consumes him. It muffles all other stimuli. He can hear a voice—a familiar voice—talking to him, but it comes through as little more than muffled nonsense. And, after a while, he thinks he can hear the door open. But… does he?

Can he, someone who’s only just beginning to grow accustomed to his new lifestyle, trust his senses?

Can he trust himself?

“Dave.” The voice is soft and sweet. It’s familiar. It’s maternal. And, naturally, Dave’s mind drifts towards it. “Dave.” Each time his name is repeated, he draws closer to reality. “Dave.” A hand reaches through the haze and…

“Kanaya. I… Shit.” Dave frowns. He presses the heels of his palms against his eyes. “Fuck. When did you get back? Where’s…?”

“I didn’t leave. They got back ten minutes ago. You’ve been on some distant fucking planet for the past three hours.” As Dave has come to expect, Karkat doesn’t beat around the bush. He gives him an honest and straightforward answer as if he intuitively knows that it’s what is needed right now.

“John…” Dave mutters. “John is in trouble. He’s in trouble because...”

“We know. It’s been all over the news. And we’re doing everything we can to figure out what the situation is,” Rose says. “For now, I think it’s best that you get some sleep, Dave.”

Uncertain of what else to do and unwilling to take any more of what this day has to offer him, Dave nods in agreement. He extends his cane and stumbles off to the guest bedroom.

 

* * *

 

Dave is uncertain of what time it is when he wakes up, but he knows it’s dark. Even when he opens his eyes, the world is an inky black. Only the dimmest slivers of silver light shine through as faint streaks.

“Terezi.” He says the name aloud in a hushed voice. He grips at the bedsheets as he suddenly sits upright.

His heart pounds in his chest; now, though, it’s excitement. It’s a sense of purpose.

He and Karkat aren’t alone. No, they have plenty of friends. All they need to do is find a way to free them.


	18. 飛龍

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Burn (Instrumental)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z2gtROwsggU)**  
>  Hamilton: Original Broadway Cast/baovmusicgeek  
>  _Hamilton_ (2015) | Atlantic Records

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Flying dragon](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Feilong)

As far as Dave Strider is concerned, the world has turned against him.

No.

Wait.

The world has _always_ been against him. He’s been the butt of the world’s cruelty since he was born.

He’s yet to tell a single person about this, but a deep, vitriolic sense of resentment is building within him. The world has cheated him. He’s escaped the Arena and had finally gotten a chance to do what he’d always wanted. He could experience the world as someone free of the gladiatorial bloodbath of the old stadium. He could learn things he never thought he would. Hell, with Karkat, he finally found himself within reach of learning how to draw.

And, then, it hit. Whatever the hell it was, it ravaged his sight in the span of a few weeks.

Sure, he acts like everything’s fine.

But, really, he’s just about to declare that he’s surrendered to the forces of fate. For all he cares, it can swallow him whole so that he never faces the light of day again.

Light…

It’s all so bright, now. Not even the shades are helping. Everything is just a vibrant, pure white and it feels like an icepick digging into his skull.

And the world he’d always wanted to experience—the Neo-Skaia beyond the Arena and its beguiling, dazzling lights—is gone.

Beneath his usual composure and mask of disinterest and apathy, Dave Strider is drowning in his own sorrows. He clings desperately to anything that will keep him afloat and, now, that one thing is sliding from his grasp.

“Is no one fucking talking to me?” (Karkat stands in the middle of the living room with his arms folded across his chest. His thick, dark brows are furrowed, the inner edges pressed together.

Near Dave, Rose and Kanaya exchange worried looks.)

It was a headache. A headache last night—one Karkat had gone to sleep off. How has it turned into this?

Dave clings to his cane. He wrings it between his hands. “You’re… Shitting me, right?” As if it will make the situation better, he laughs nervously. “This is some bullshit joke. Some big, awful joke. John’s probably about to show up some time soon to tell me I fell for another of his shitty pranks.”

“Strider?” Karkat’s speech lacks its usual clarity. There’s a slight slur. “Strider, what the fuck is going on?”

“Stop asking me!” Dave grumbles. “I don’t fuckin’ know.”

“Well…” Rose says hesitantly, “If my guess is correct, it seems as though Karkat’s got the same sort of unspecified problem as you. He’s…”

“I know,” Dave snaps. “I’m asking you why. _Why_ the fuck is this happening?”

“You didn’t do anything, Dave.” Rose’s reassurance does nothing.

 

* * *

 

Two men stand in the basement of the Arena.

“The second trap has finished its job.”

“So, then, that means that both of these goddamned pains are out of commission?”

“Correct.”

“Begin looking. That doctor we arrested—John—he should know where they are. Push him until he breaks; he’ll have some good information.”

 

* * *

 

Unable to bear the weight which hangs inside Rose’s house, Dave has made his way into the back yard. He kneels in the grass, his mind little more than a loud, hazy cacophony of thoughts.

“It’s because of the shit I did in the Arena.” Dave mutters the words to himself. They’re carried away by the wind. “I deserve it. But he doesn’t. Karkat doesn’t deserve it, dammit. God fucking dammit.”

“There’s a possibility that we can reverse this. You _and_ Karkat.”

Dave frowns. He turns towards the voice. “Rose?”

“Yeah.” Rose sighs. “Kanaya believes that something so specific has to be nanotechnology. Tiny devices programmed to attack specific parts of the body. A restorative variety might be able to return the senses you and Karkat have lost.”

“I don’t give a damn. I’d trade my so-called cure for him. Just… Where did it come from?”

“I’m getting ready to talk to Jade. We’ll visit her tomorrow. She’ll run some tests and look into things, as she usually does.”

“Jade…” The name is familiar. Even after all the years that have passed since he last saw her, Jade’s name calms him. It encapsulates him in a sense of warmth and safety. He clenches his fists; the wet dirt beneath him presses against his palms. “We’re… We’re going to see Jade?”

“Yeah. She’s already said she can’t wait to see you.”

Dave nods slowly. He invests all of his attention on the sensation of the earth in his hands. He tethers himself frantically to reality. “Karkat… He’s… Is Karkat okay?”

“He’s in shock.”

Another slow nod.

“It’s going to rain soon, Dave. Do you want to come inside or…?”

Dave shakes his head. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He listens as Rose’s soft footsteps recede and takes dictatorial control over his own thoughts.

He can’t do this.

He’s a Strider.

Striders regret nothing. Striders fear nothing.

What happens to Karkat is his responsibility, now.

It’s something he started; and, now, it’s something he needs to finish.

And he can’t finish it like this.

He just needs time.

He needs time to sort through this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short one sorry


	19. 蒲牢

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Vois sur ton Chemin](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P-Zz_bSCsBE)**  
>  Bruno Coulais  
>  ** _Les Choristes_** (2004) | Warner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Pulao/Tulao](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pulao_\(dragon\))

Dave and Karkat haven’t spoken for the past twenty-four hours.

Still, they sit back-to-back on the carefully cultivated live grass carpet.

Dave has drawn his knees to his chest.

Karkat sighs—it’s his usual strange, short breath.

And, after some time, Dave elbows Karkat gently.

“What? Strider?” (Perhaps it’s just Dave, but his voice is getting more indistinct. His words blend together more. His articulation falters.) “…Strider?”

Acting under the assumption that Karkat has turned to look at him, Dave offers a nervous smile. “Nice to know you’re still talking…” he mutters.

Karkat frowns, he raises his brow. “What? I… Fuck.”

Dave feels Karkat turn so that he’s facing forward again. He runs his fingers through his hair and chews on his lip.

What the hell is he supposed to do?

There’s no way he can content himself with never being able to talk to Karkat…

“Dave? You still in here?” The voice is familiar.

He knows it’s Jade.

And he knows what Jade looks like from experience. Tan skin, long black hair, round glasses, and a toothy smile. She looks just like John.

John…

The name sends an unpleasant shock to Dave’s heart. His chest tightens.

“I’m sorry, Karkat…” Dave says the words mostly to himself. To whatever the hell is listening—to the gentle breeze which blows through Jade’s open apartment window. “I never meant for this shit to happen. I…” He pauses. His hand wanders until he feels a familiar and surprisingly cold hand. He grabs onto it and captures the resultant grunt of surprise. He memorizes it, unsure of whether or not this is what their relationship will be reduced to.

“Hey, Dave?” There’s an uncertain pause. The conversation comes to an unceremonious halt.

And Dave, for some reason, has an idea. He carefully frees his hand from Karkat’s grip and begins to trace letters against his palm with his index finger. In all lowercase script—motions which don’t require him to lift his finger—he spells his response. _‘Karkat?’_

It takes a few minutes for Karkat to understand the message but, when the reply comes, there’s that distinctive vocal quality to it—the tone of voice that people have when they’re smiling. “Fuck. Now we’re both going to take forever to say everything.”

_‘How’re you holding up?’_

“Fucking dandy. You’ve gone blind and I’ve gone deaf. Is this the fucking irony you so desire, Strider? Is it?” Karkat snickers. “Now, if you’ve got any questions that aren’t absolute paltry bullshit…”

_‘That’s mean, asshole.’_

“Amazing. An asshole being mean.” Another short sigh. Karkat pauses. “I… Can you understand me, Strider? Because I’m not coming through to myself. It’s like, ‘Earth to Karkat. You probably sound like a fucking dipshit.’ If that makes sense.”

_‘Nah you’re fine.’_

“You’re pretty short on words, Strider.”

_‘What? You want an essay?’_

Karkat laughs—a wonderful sound that Dave clings to as something positive that’s come from the past few days. “Not today. Probably a little early for that.”

Around now, the door opens.

With Jade’s voice comes the last image that Dave has of her face—a young, beautiful woman of seventeen years with tan skin and long, black hair and round glasses—pops into his mind. She shares similarities with John; not that it’s surprising, seeing as they’re related. Distant cousins, apparently. “Dave? You still in here?”

Dave nods. He smiles. Jade is like John; it’s hard not to smile when she speaks. She’s so energetic. “Yeah. Have we found out something?”

“Yeah.” (Jade, too nods. She smiles brightly.) “You and Kanaya were right. It’s malignant nanobots. Karkat’s, however, seem to be inactive. The few I found in the sample have shut down.” (She absentmindedly plucks at the colorful strings around her fingers.) A thoughtful hum escapes her. “I think they’re supposed to do that. They’ll do their job and then die off and slowly dissolve or… something like that,” (she shrugs,) “I’m assuming it’s so that they don’t cause too much suspicion.”

Dave rolls his eyes, though he knows it’s pointless. His eyes are hidden behind his shades. “I’d say that going fuckin’ blind is pretty damned conspicuous, Jade.”

“Okay. True.” (Again, Jade shrugs.) “Anyhow, I only tested Karkat, so I have no clue what’s up with you, Dave. Sorry. But the good news is that all the nanotechnology is _probably_ dead by now.”

“Probably?” Dave mutters.

“Yeah…” (Jade frowns.) “Um… I’m not sure. And there are some other anomalies in Karkat’s blood, so… I’ll need to test those more, but those are natural. So, if the same thing happened to you, you’re done, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this was also  
> short  
> oops


	20. 工筆

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Te Amo y Más](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gytVUP_LuRw)**  
>  Diego Luna  
>  ** _The Book of Life_** (2014) | Sony Masterworks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Gong-bi](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gongbi)

“You’re an idiot, Strider.”

Dave shrugs. He folds his hands behind his head and sprawls out on the bed in Rose and Kanaya’s guest bedroom. Without really thinking about it, he taps his fingers against the nearby bedside table.

( _John’s been arrested._

_That’s the first thing they need to fix._

_If John is out, then there’s a constant and reliable medical lifeline…_ )

“Strider?”

Dave sighs. He rolls over and reaches out until his fingers brush against Karkat’s face. He waits until a cold hand takes his. He flips the hand so that the palm is facing up. _‘What?’_

“Don’t you think we should just fuck off? I mean…” Karkat sighs. (His gaze wanders, turning away from Dave. To any observer, it would seem as if he’d taken pointed interest in the slowly spinning ceiling fan.) “We’ve got a better chance at finding the fucking Holy Grail than doing this, Strider.”

A shrug. A disinterested sigh. _“Really?”_

“Really,” confirms Karkat.

Dave responds with another sigh—longer, this time. He runs his fingers through his hair and mutters to himself.

( _This is too hard. This takes too damned long. There has to be a better way to do this…_

_Is there?_ )

Dave rolls over, turning his back to Karkat, only to feel someone gently pulling him towards them. Presumably, it’s Karkat. No. Not presumably. It _is_. His soft but cold touch against the back of Dave’s hand is enough to tell him that.

Sure, there’s sign language.

( _The problem there is that Dave never learned it. Which means Karkat hasn’t, either. It’s not something that’s taught to Arena fighters in their basic education. Why would it be? Any fighters who can’t meet standards—who fail to put up a worthwhile fight—are simply killed or sent off to some unknown hellhole._ )

“You’re warm. What the hell, Strider?”

Dave, roused from his own thoughts, snickers.

“Fuck. I’m going to end up like you, Strider. Talking to my goddamned self all the time.”

Another quiet snicker. Without much thought, he rests his forehead against Karkat’s chest.

The rise and fall is so careful and calculated. It’s unnatural—mechanical—but, somehow, it’s comforting. It’s constant. In this new world of absolute chaos, it’s something he can predict.

“You’re clingy as hell, Strider.”

Dave responds with a gentle, playful shove. He begins to let the constant and predictable movement to lull him to sleep.

Then, there’s a quiet jingling. Something lands on the bed. As it works its way between Dave and Karkat, Dave feels it. Soft. Fluffy. It squirms restlessly beneath his curious fingers.

“Up next on sentimental television: getting your romantic interactions ruined by a fucking dog.” Despite his words, there’s a hint of laughter in Karkat’s voice. “Oh. No. Shit. Don’t lick me oh. Ew.”

Something rubs against Dave’s face. He has a sneaking suspicion that it’s actually the dog’s ass; but, he doesn’t really care. As far as he’s concerned, listening to Karkat try to convince a dog that he’s not mating material is pretty damned interesting.

“I’m not even the same species as you, dammit. Did… Is Casey fixed? I really do not need to start today with a dog humping my face. Strider? _Strider?_ You going to help me or are you just going to keep that shit-eating smirk on your fucking awful face.”

Dave, in return, shrugs. He holds up two fingers. _Second option. I’m going with the second option._

Somehow, Karkat gets the message. “You’re an asshole, Dave Strider.”

The tips of his thumb and forefinger come together to form a fairly universal okay sign. Dave grins and shrugs with a pointedly over-the-top dramatized innocence. Again, he gets a face-full of probable dog ass. No. Scratch that. Casey’s farted in his face. It’s no longer probable; it’s fucking confirmed.

“Oh. Fuck. It’s… Go, dog! Go! Hump someone else! Hump Dave! He can’t see you! That’s half of the trauma of being face-fucked by a dog out of the goddamned picture!”

As if on cue, Casey stops. She quietly flops down between the two men and rapidly falls asleep.

And, around this point, Dave figures that he might as well try something—anything—that will be easier than spelling every word on Karkat’s palm. He makes a series of quick, abstract motions. Points at the dog. Mimes a standard mortarboard hat. Shrugs and quirks his brow.

“Dog training?”

( _Well shit. It worked._ )

“Are you suggesting we get dog training? Because I don’t think that not humping things is part of the fucking standard curriculum.”

In his mind, Dave pictures Karkat’s face. His pronouncedly furrowed brow and often mildly confused frown. The thick, messy black hair which falls in his face. The tiny scar that he’s sure Karkat doesn’t even think about—a small spot just beneath his left eye where they’re a sharp line from what was most likely a blade. ( _Why does he remember that?_ )

Absentmindedly, Dave reaches forward. He runs his finger along Karkat’s jawline and commits the contour the memory. It’s still the same. Why wouldn’t it be? It hasn’t been long enough for that to change. Still, he might as well start now.

Presumably, they’ll both go down in some massive conspiratorial clusterfuck.

“Hey, Strider?”

“Hm?” Again, Dave pays careful attention to his own posturing. He once again quirks his brow and offers what he hopes comes off as an expectant look—something that tells Karkat he’s ready to hear what he has to say.

And Karkat, after a few moments, responds with hesitancy. “You’re… Oh. Fuck. You’re so damned insufferable but… in a nice way, I guess?” (He smiles nervously. A slight rouge tint lights his cheeks.) “Make me a deal, Strider…”

Dave nods.

“Don’t do anything fucking stupid.”

Here, Dave can’t help but laugh. ( _Everything I do is stupid._ ) A few more improvised movements. Drawing a large circle with his hands, pointing at himself, offering a look of exaggerated confusion.

And, when Karkat replies, Dave is undeniably impressed. Clearly, Karkat knows how to get messages from even the most obtuse and illogical of things. “I fucking know everything you do is stupid. Why else would I date you? You need someone with common sense to grab you by the collar every other goddamned second and scream ‘No’ at you. Otherwise, who knows where the fuck you’d be. Probably inside a kraken.”

Though he rolls his eyes, Dave hesitantly reaches out. He maneuvers around Casey, who seems to be adamant about her spot on the bed, and pushed forward until his palm is pressed lightly against the fabric of Karkat’s sweater—resting atop his chest. ( _You’re a fuckin’ dork, but I love you_.)

This time, the whole thing doesn’t go through. The important piece does, though. When Karkat responds, his voice smiles—the tone of his words betrays the look on his face that Dave can’t see. “I guess I like you, too, you damned jackass.”

 

* * *

 

“This plan is absurd, Dave.”

Karkat has what Dave lacks—vision.

Dave has what Karkat lacks—hearing.

It’s an odd combination which seems to be evolving so that each can work as both independents and codependents of the other. Karkat picks up on certain words and prompts Dave for what he misses; Dave picks out tonal and vocal qualities and prompts Karkat for body language.

Combining this information and the fact that Karkat has given him a strong elbow to the stomach, Dave assumes that his proposal isn’t going well. Not that he needed the additional prompting. Rose’s response was flat-out negative.

“Hear me out, though, Rose…”

“Don’t hear him out, dammit. He’s a fucking dipshit!” says Karkat, sighing.

Dave, in return, shrugs. “If I can bust out enough people, I can get people to actually look at the Arena. See what they’re fuckin’ doing.”

“And you think they’ll care?” Karkat’s voice is bitter. It’s resentful. And, honestly, Dave doesn’t blame him; he’s not entirely sure if people will care, either.

( _But everything is worth trying._ )

Stubborn as always, Dave continues, “They’ve done a whole fuckin’ ton of awful bullshit. There’s international crap about this. Human rights and all that. And if I’m going to make myself look like an absolute fuckin’ jackass with more shit than brains, I might as well do it for a good cause.”

Rose sighs. (She folds her arms across her chest.) “Fine, Dave. I’ll help you. But we’ll have to work with Jade, first.”

“Why?”

“If you and Karkat have that nasty shit in your blood, I’m willing to bet _everyone_ in the Arena does. And can you, in good conscience, let them all out with that knowledge?” (Rose’s eyes are like knives. Or, perhaps, arrows. Shot or thrown by only the most skilled. They pierce everything they land on like butter.) Even without seeing her gaze, Dave can feel it digging into him—jabbing at his heart.

He sighs. “No. I can’t.”

“So, then, it’s settled.”

“And how long will that take?” prompts Dave.

Karkat, likely having picked up on the unpredictable and volatile flame which burns inside of Dave, interrupts. “Calm your fucking tits, Strider.”

Dave lets forth a breath—air tainted with his own inner turmoil. He calms himself.

And, as this happens, Rose responds to the initial inquiry. “I’m sure she’ll have it solved pretty quickly.”

“Until then, I guess we might as well work on breaking that jackass out of prison.”

(Rose smiles. She rolls her eyes.) “John? Dave, do you just call _everyone_ you know derisive names?”

Dave, too, smiles. “Yeah. Ask Karkat. He’ll vouch for that.”

**Author's Note:**

> **if you have any concerns or issues with this fic, please let me know so i can fix it. comments, private messages (does... does ao3 do that?) and chats through[my blog](http://tennantstype40.tumblr.com) are appreciated.**


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